by H G Lynch
I frowned at her. “How do you know? How do you know I didn’t totally screw this up?”
She smiled at me. “Well, she has to come back. She left her t-shirt here.”
I groaned. “Not helping.”
“Plus, her best friend lives here. Even if you had screwed up, Islay would come back for Angus, so you’d see her again anyway.”
I glared. “Are you trying to make me feel worse?”
She grinned. “But . . . the main reason she’ll come back is you, Ru. I’ve known Islay a long time, and I always suspected that she and Angus would get together, but I never really saw it, you know? But, when you came, and I saw the way you looked at her, and the way she looked at you, I knew. I knew Angus wasn’t the one she wanted. I don’t want to overstep my bounds by saying anything I shouldn’t, but I will say that Islay cares about you very much, Ruairidh. She might need some time to absorb everything after last night, but she’ll come back to you, honey.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
How did she always know the right thing to say? I smiled. “Thanks, Mum.”
“No problem.” She winked. “Now eat up. Your brother should be back soon and—”
She was interrupted by a knock at the door, and her eyes widened. “Well . . . maybe that’s Islay now,” she murmured.
I started to get up, but she waved a hand at me. “You stay here and eat. I’ll get it.”
Sighing, I sat back down, but I didn’t continue eating. I stabbed at my scrambled eggs, straining to hear what was happening at the front door, hoping to hear Islay’s voice, but whoever was there was keeping their voice low.
“Ruairidh,” my mother called, and my heart skipped.
I sprang out of my seat and rushed into the front hall. I came to a dead halt, though, when I saw it wasn’t Islay at the door. I frowned. “Officer Clay, Janovich. Something I can do for you?”
The grizzly Officer Clay looked, well, like a grumpy grizzly bear. Bearded, narrow eyes, bulky body. Officer Janovich, the younger guy with the brown ponytail, wasn’t smiling pleasantly this time. His eyes were fixed on me with a worrying intensity. I could feel Mum hovering behind me anxiously, and I wondered what the hell I’d done now. I’d thought I was off the hook for the whole incident with the woman and the knife.
Without any small talk, Officer Clay pulled something from his pocket and held it up in front of me. “Is this yours, Ruairidh?” he asked.
It was a plastic evidence bag with red tape across the top, and sealed inside was one of my daggers. The one with the red leather grip. The one I always wore on my ankle. I blinked, trying to remember when I’d last seen that dagger. The night before, after the party, before the demon. I’d removed all my daggers while Islay was sleeping off her drunken stupor, and put them in my hidey-hole in the wardrobe. Hadn’t I?
“Where did you get that?” I blurted. Not my smartest response. The smartest thing I could have said would probably have been a simple no.
Clay and Janovich exchanged a glance, and my stomach dropped. Shit. Clay shoved the evidence bag with my dagger in it back into his pocket and stepped back. “We’d like you to come with us, Mr Finnegan.”
Mr Finnegan? Last time I’d seen him, I’d been “son.” And, while I appreciated the formal name more than the familiarity, I knew it was a very bad sign. I crossed my arms, planting my feet. “Why?”
Clay set his jaw, and Janovich said more gently, “Please, step out of the house, sir. Let’s not do this in front of your mother.” He made a kind sort of face, one that said, ‘Please, let’s do this nicely.’
I wasn’t buying it. There was a threat somewhere in his words, and that made me grit my teeth.
Something in the back of my mind rankled. There was something about Janovich that creeped me out. I’d felt it the first time I’d met him too, and my natural sensor for trouble was ringing like a fire alarm. I glared at him. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Not until you tell me why, and where you got that dagger.”
My mother touched my elbow in a silent warning. “Ruairidh.”
I shook her off and pulled my shoulders back, flattening my expression. It was the stance and the look I used when some tough fuck decided he wanted to try me, and it usually made even two-hundred-pound, skinhead bikers back off. But either these cops had seen the look before, or they had balls of steel because they didn’t so much as flinch.
Finally, Clay cleared his throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs off his belt, the metal gleaming sinisterly. In a flat, professional cop voice, Clay said, “Ruairidh Finnegan, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Islay Sinclair.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
