camera? It isn’t exactly vandal central around here.” The only people who lived out here were nature wardens and ornithology students, hardly the epitome of evil. Unless maybe the camera had recorded something. Maybe traffickers used this island and the camera had filmed them in action? He shifted his weight from foot to foot.
She propped the shovel against the wall, put her box on the grass and shouldered past him to close the door and lock it. She put the key in her pocket. “People have long memories.”
He rolled his eyes. Jesus. Not the crazy witch thing again. “Who cares about your past enough, or even knows what happened all those years ago?” he pointed out reasonably.
She gave the doorknob a shake, checking the lock. “The wardens rely on the boats for supplies—the boats come from the town.” She raised a dark brow and Ben noted again how it contrasted with her hair. Did she color it that bright blond shade? Some kind of disguise? “There are people in town who hate me.”
He thought about it for a moment. There had been that bully in the bar, but it still sounded nuts. Thank God they didn’t have witches in Chicago or Colombia. Drive-by shootings, kidnappings up the wazoo, terrorists and gang warfare, but thankfully no sorcery.
“I know you don’t believe me.” Her eyes narrowed as she straightened her backbone, growing taller and more remote by the second. “Let me spell it out for you.” She lowered her voice when some tourists came into sight. “I found my daddy’s corpse on a beach where it should never have washed up. I found him lying at my feet with no recollection of ever leaving my bed.”
Damn. “Okay, that’s weird but—”
“The next day Duncan Mackenzie—that guy from the pub—and his cronies grabbed me on the beach.” Her voice was raw, her eyes shimmering with memories. “I was ten years old, and I’d just lost the person I loved most in the world.”
He wanted to backtrack. He didn’t want to know what those boys did to that little girl. He knew how destructive bullies could be, but despite the hurt he saw in her eyes, he needed to let her finish. This was his job. The edge of the cardboard box buckled beneath his fingers.
“They stripped me naked, tied me to a washed-up log and piled driftwood around me.” Her voice went flat, contradicting the emotional fireworks discharging behind her eyes. “I struggled as hard as I could, but I couldn’t get away.” Her fingers curled into defiant fists.
Anger raced through his system but had nowhere to go. There were worse things than being nearly drowned as a kid.
Sorcha bent to pick up her box. “Anyway, I was lucky. Duncan tried to light the wood with his brother’s cigarette lighter, only it wouldn’t catch. So he set fire to my hair instead.” Her lips were bloodless, eyes unfocused.
Sickened, Ben strove for something to say.
“Maggie Johnstone came out of her cottage, the one where you’re staying, and got me to safety before they had time to fetch kerosene.”
It was difficult to hold on to the hardness, tough to maintain the mistrust, but this could all be a lie. It could be part of a complex scheme to gain his sympathy and obstruct his investigation. Ben shut down the compassion she evoked, mustering his cold sonofabitch persona.
It was a hell of a lot more difficult than it should be.
“My Gran sent me away after Dad’s funeral.” A single tear escaped, she smeared it against her shoulder. “I was gone for fifteen years, but nothing’s changed.” She balanced the box on one knee and grabbed the shovel, but he took it from her and she released it without argument. “And now, like the paranoid lunatic you obviously think I am, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being stalked.”
***
He hesitated at the backdoor of Sorcha’s cottage, opened his senses to search for others in the house. Nothing. He knew Sorcha was on the island and Carolyn rarely came home during the day.
He had a
She propped the shovel against the wall, put her box on the grass and shouldered past him to close the door and lock it. She put the key in her pocket. “People have long memories.”
He rolled his eyes. Jesus. Not the crazy witch thing again. “Who cares about your past enough, or even knows what happened all those years ago?” he pointed out reasonably.
She gave the doorknob a shake, checking the lock. “The wardens rely on the boats for supplies—the boats come from the town.” She raised a dark brow and Ben noted again how it contrasted with her hair. Did she color it that bright blond shade? Some kind of disguise? “There are people in town who hate me.”
He thought about it for a moment. There had been that bully in the bar, but it still sounded nuts. Thank God they didn’t have witches in Chicago or Colombia. Drive-by shootings, kidnappings up the wazoo, terrorists and gang warfare, but thankfully no sorcery.
“I know you don’t believe me.” Her eyes narrowed as she straightened her backbone, growing taller and more remote by the second. “Let me spell it out for you.” She lowered her voice when some tourists came into sight. “I found my daddy’s corpse on a beach where it should never have washed up. I found him lying at my feet with no recollection of ever leaving my bed.”
Damn. “Okay, that’s weird but—”
“The next day Duncan Mackenzie—that guy from the pub—and his cronies grabbed me on the beach.” Her voice was raw, her eyes shimmering with memories. “I was ten years old, and I’d just lost the person I loved most in the world.”
He wanted to backtrack. He didn’t want to know what those boys did to that little girl. He knew how destructive bullies could be, but despite the hurt he saw in her eyes, he needed to let her finish. This was his job. The edge of the cardboard box buckled beneath his fingers.
“They stripped me naked, tied me to a washed-up log and piled driftwood around me.” Her voice went flat, contradicting the emotional fireworks discharging behind her eyes. “I struggled as hard as I could, but I couldn’t get away.” Her fingers curled into defiant fists.
Anger raced through his system but had nowhere to go. There were worse things than being nearly drowned as a kid.
Sorcha bent to pick up her box. “Anyway, I was lucky. Duncan tried to light the wood with his brother’s cigarette lighter, only it wouldn’t catch. So he set fire to my hair instead.” Her lips were bloodless, eyes unfocused.
Sickened, Ben strove for something to say.
“Maggie Johnstone came out of her cottage, the one where you’re staying, and got me to safety before they had time to fetch kerosene.”
It was difficult to hold on to the hardness, tough to maintain the mistrust, but this could all be a lie. It could be part of a complex scheme to gain his sympathy and obstruct his investigation. Ben shut down the compassion she evoked, mustering his cold sonofabitch persona.
It was a hell of a lot more difficult than it should be.
“My Gran sent me away after Dad’s funeral.” A single tear escaped, she smeared it against her shoulder. “I was gone for fifteen years, but nothing’s changed.” She balanced the box on one knee and grabbed the shovel, but he took it from her and she released it without argument. “And now, like the paranoid lunatic you obviously think I am, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being stalked.”
***
He hesitated at the backdoor of Sorcha’s cottage, opened his senses to search for others in the house. Nothing. He knew Sorcha was on the island and Carolyn rarely came home during the day.
He had a
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