A Circle of Crows

by Kelsey Kingsley

  “Well, I could,” I muttered, cocking my head and shrugging.

  “But ye won’t,” he chuckled, standing and clapping a hand to my shoulder. “Find yerself a few suspects first.”

  “Ah, a suspect,” I groaned, wiping a hand over my face. “Wouldnae that be grand …”

  I told him about what had happened with James Eddington, and how I likely wouldn't have access to the inn's guest logs for another couple of days. Rick made a joke about getting a warrant, and I snickered bitterly, wishing to Christ and whoever else would listen that I could have the resources of the department at my disposal.

  ***

  “We haven’t eaten in here since …” Rick shook his head disbelievingly, as I finished his sentence, “Since yer parents were alive.”

  Rosie helped herself to a heaping spoonful of potatoes and said, “I take it that was a long time ago.”

  As he sat down beside TJ, Rick nodded. “My mother passed away shortly after my father, and that was well over ten years ago,” he explained in a way that seemed rehearsed, and I supposed, in a way, it was. “And they left all of this to me.”

  “So, your father was a … laird,” Rosie said, meeting my eye with a smile.

  “Aye,” Rick replied, chuckling. “And after he died, the title was passed to me, for whatever it's worth.”

  TJ bit into a chicken leg and muttered, “Not a bad deal. If my parents croaked, I'd get … what? A shitty condo and a little shack?”

  Rosie's jaw dropped with a gasp. “A shack? A shack?! That house is so far from being a shack!”

  TJ laughed as he ate. “Mom, come on! It's got like, two bedrooms that are basically the size of closets, one bathroom …” He glanced at Rick and said, “You live in a castle compared to her place.”

  “Well, I mean,” Rosie scoffed, dipping a fork into her potatoes, “if you're comparing it to this house, then yeah, fine. It's a freakin' shack.”

  Rick jabbed his fork in my direction and with a grin, said, “Cannae be as bad as what this bloke was lookin' at before I told him to move in with me.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “What was wrong with it?”

  “Well, nothin', I guess,” he muttered, as he leaned his shoulder against TJ's and said, “If ye dinnae mind sharin' yer home with rats.”

  “Rats,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes. “They were wee mice, ye fuckin' bawbag.”

  The woman beside me laughed and stirred the ghost of affection inside me. Hadn’t I told him to mind his business and stay quiet? But he was a rebellious bastard, and there he was, urging me to glance at her from the corner of my eye. So, I did, to find that her dark brown hair was now swept back from her face and piled on top of her head, with stray tendrils laying across her forehead and around her ears. And they were perfect ears, if ears could be perfect. Nicely proportioned to her face, and not the kind that stuck out. They were inconspicuous, the type you wouldn’t notice, unless you were looking, and if you did, in fact, find yourself staring, you would realize that they were indeed perfect.

  “Alec?”

  Shaking my head, I looked toward Rick, to find him smirking like the smug prick that he is.

  “Huh?”

  “We were just talkin’ about yer house in Edinburgh,” he said, and fuck him, the daft bastard. Because why in God’s name would I ever want to talk about my life in Edinburgh in front of Rosie and her perfect ears?

  “Rick said it was nice,” she commented, turning to smile at me.

  “Aye,” I grunted, looking away with a nod.

  “His ex-wife got it in the divorce,” Rick explained further. “But it was gorgeous. Wasnae much for a family, though. If they’d had a few wee ones, it never wouldae fit ‘em all, but fuck, it was a beauty.”

  “Ye’re talkin’ like ye dinnae live in a fuckin’ castle,” I muttered, glancing across the table at my friend. “And no, it couldnae fit a family, and that was just fine.”

  “Right,” Rick said. “Because ye didnae want one, ye sorry shite.”

  I dropped my gaze to my plate, still barely touched and loaded, and said, “I didnae care to have one with her. That was different.”

  “Why did you marry her, then?” TJ asked abruptly, and I glanced at him, surprised that such a young boy would ask a brazen question like that.

  I lifted my shoulders and looked to the lamp above the table as I said, “Ah, well, laddie, my parents thought it’d be best. They wanted to see me happy and livin’ my life, so I thought I was doin’ the right thing when I married the first lassie who ever gave me the time of day.”

  “So, you got married because your parents wanted you to,” he snickered, shaking his head. “That’s a stupid reason.”

  “Aye,” I said, nodding my agreement. “It was. Broke my father’s heart when we divorced, too. Wouldae been easier to just stay unmarried until I’d met the right woman.”

  “Yer dad is happy ye’re home, though,” Rick reasoned.

  “My dad doesnae ken his right foot from his left,” I muttered softly, and silently excused myself from the conversation to finish my dinner and go back to work.

  ***

  Yet, I could hardly work that night. Not when my mind was full of so many thoughts and torments. It was the worst time to be distracted, I had a case to solve, and the clock wasn't slowing for restless nights. But I couldn't get my damned brain to give it a rest.

  I thought of my father. The man was sitting in a nursing home on the other side of town, living with a rotted, terminal mind. It would kill him one day. The doctors couldn't tell me when, but it was going to happen, sooner rather than later. It had been an unfortunate stroke of luck that his illness had finally pinned him down after the divorce and when I needed purpose at the darkest time of my life. But what would happen once he was gone?

  I thought of my ex-wife. The woman my mother had loved but I never did. The long hours I kept at work that prevented our relationship from becoming something more real than the rings on our fingers. I didn’t know who she was with now, or what she was doing with her life, and I didn't care. I wondered if I should or if I was supposed to. Shouldn't a man care about the woman he spent years of his life with? What kind of man did it make me that I didn’t?

  But mostly, I thought of Rosie.

  I had known the woman for all of two days, and I couldn't get her out of my head, and why? What the hell was so special about her? What had she done to earn such a place of prestige in my picky mind? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that was unacceptable.

  Rick stumbled into the kitchen at half past two in the morning, when he noticed me slumped over the counter, with my head in my hands and an array of photographs and paperwork laid before me. He stopped for a moment, staring in my direction, before asking if I was all right.

  “Fuckin' wonderful,” I muttered, sitting up and pushing my hair back with both hands.

  “That's convincin'.”

  I looked at him, eyes narrowed and angry, and asked, “Why'd ye have to mention Aileen?”

  In the dim light of the kitchen, I watched his movements stutter on the way to the refrigerator, as he replied, “I wasnae aware she was a secret.”

  “She isn’t, but she's not yer business to mention, either.”

  He studied me a moment, staring from behind his thick glasses, then said, “If ye fancy her so damn much, ye should do somethin’ about it.”

  Shaking my head, I asked, “What are ye goin’ on about?”

  “Oh, ye ken exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” he hissed in reply. “In the past few days, I’ve seen ye mopin’ around more than when yer wife left ye. So, just say somethin’ to her. Make yer move.”

  “I’m workin’ for her,” I muttered, turning back to the scrapbook of pictures. “There’s nothin’ more to it than that. Once she leaves, that’s it.”

  “Is that what it is, then? Ye’re afraid of what’ll happen once she’s gone?”

  “I’m not afraid,” I insisted confidently, despite it being bullshit. “I j
ust acknowledge what is real. Once this is over, and it will be over soon, she’s goin’ back to her home, and I’m gonna be here. So, why say anythin’ when it’s never gonna end well?”

  Slowly, he grinned, and I demanded to know what the hell he was smiling about. “I’m smilin’ because ye admit it,” he replied smugly. “Ye fancy her.”

  “Ah, go back to bed, ye shite,” I grumbled.

  “I’m goin’. But y’know, Alec,” he said, a hint of mischief in his voice, “just because she’s leavin’ doesnae mean ye cannae enjoy it while she’s here. It’s better to miss someone than to spend yer life wonderin’ what might’ve happened if ye’d just given it a chance.”

  With that, my nosy friend hurried back to his room, and I spent the rest of the morning, wondering if he was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ROSIE

  “Rosie,” she called, her voice echoing through the blackened night. “Rosie, I’m so cold.”

  “Where are you?!” I called out, running through the woods, and dodging the branches that stretched out toward me. Clawing, scratching, grabbing with their finger-like branches. Pulling against my thin t-shirt and pants.

  “I’m so cold, Rosie. Please, please, find me.”

  “Gracie, I don’t see you!”

  “I’m so cold—wait, no! No, stop! Please, stop, you’re hurting me! You’re—Rosie! Please hurry! Find me! Hurry!”

  “Gracie!” I screamed, running now. Frantic. Crying. Tripping over roots and rocks and my own damn, stupid feet. “Gracie! Where are you?!”

  The night was still and a chilling silence shrouded the forest. The call of the pitch black crows overhead could barely be heard over the quiet. It was as if I had now been submerged in water, while I continued to run, making my way through the thick of the woods, effortlessly dodging the branches that beckoned me into their foreboding arms. It was as if I knew this forest and its inhabitants, like I knew their every twist and turn and twig. I kept running, looking for her, and calling her name, with the fear that I would never find her again. But then, I came upon an abrupt clearing, and there she was. Grey and draped elegantly over the smooth, flat stone. The back of her head was visible to me, crushed and bloody; her hair, matted down against what was left of her scalp. Shards of bone splintered in jagged pieces, peeking out from between strands of hair and crusty, blackened blood. Then, in a state of paralyzing fear, I watched as her head slowly began to turn until her unblinking eyes stared out at me. She looked across the clearing, as if to figure out who had entered her open, natural tomb, and then, one hand lifted to point directly at me.

  “You did this.”

  I bolted upright in bed and felt my hair glued to my forehead with sticky sweat. I gasped for air, clutched at my chest, and frantically reminded myself how to breathe.

  “It was a nightmare,” I said breathlessly. “It was just a nightmare. You’re okay, you’re okay …”

  But was I, really? Lying was never going to convince me that was the truth, and I flopped back against the pillows as tears formed and fell into the pillow. Closing my eyes, I saw her again, my sister and her cold, lifeless stare. The blood congealed against her once beautiful hair and the pale, blue color of her cracked lips. Snapping my eyes back open, I returned to a seated position, knowing damn well I wasn’t sleeping anytime soon. I jumped out of bed to throw on a sweatshirt and hurried out the door, as if the ghost of my sister was inhabiting the room and not the woods several miles away.

  I walked down the stairs and to the kitchen, not surprised to find Alec at the counter. The man never seemed to sleep. His button-down shirt was untucked from his pants, his shoes had been kicked off underneath his stool, and I noticed a hole in the heel of one sock. The man was not only a wreck, he also needed someone to care for him, and while I would have normally found that type of helplessness unappealing, something about him called to me.

  I hated how much I liked it.

  “Do ye not sleep, lass?” he asked gruffly, not bothering to look at me as he ground the heel of one hand into his forehead.

  “Apparently not,” I muttered, shuffling in to sit beside him. “Every time I fall asleep, I have nightmares.”

  “This type of work will do that to ye.”

  “I’m not cut out for it,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m meant to sit behind a desk during the day, and at night, come home and drink a bottle of wine before going to town on every bag of chocolate in my kitchen.”

  “What a wild one, ye are,” he muttered with a chuckle.

  “Mm-hmm,” I sighed with a nod and a reminiscent smile. “On the weekends, I like concerts, dancing, and getting tattoos. That’s when I really come to life.”

  He turned to me then, raising a brow. “Tattoos, y’say?”

  I nodded, smirking. “Bet you wouldn’t have guessed a boring, old, single mom from Connecticut would have a bunch of tattoos, huh?”

  “No, it isnae that,” he replied, his gaze dropping to my lips for just a fraction of a second. “I’m just tryin’ to imagine where they are and what they might be of, is all.” Then, bringing his eyes back to mine, he added, “And I would never call ye old … or borin’.”

  The smirk was wiped clean from my face as the gruff insinuation in his voice wrapped around my belly, warming it up like a shot of scotch on a cold winter’s night. There was a smoldering heat in his gaze that I hadn’t noticed before, and while nearly every part of me awakened and desperately wanted to act on primal instinct, there was still a piece of my conscience that said there was work to be done.

  “Well,” I said quickly, turning away, “you can bet I’ll be going back to my old, boring ways once this case is solved.”

  “That’d be a shame.”

  Gracie came back to mind then, as I pictured her carefully calculated way of life. I thought of her routine and the rituals she had held to ensure her utmost safety. It was almost as though she’d always suspected something would inevitably happen, and she had done whatever she could to guarantee that it didn’t. But we don’t get to escape our own fate when it’s already made up its mind that it wants us.

  “I used to say that to Grace,” I said. “I would tell her it was such a shame that she never let herself do anything without thinking it through.”

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ careful.”

  I shook my head, looking forward at the tiled backsplash behind the range. “No. But she wasn’t just careful. She really was boring,” and I laughed at that, as the guilt of speaking ill of my dead sister gripped my heart. “She went through this whole vetting process when she first met her ex-fiancé. It was crazy. I mean, the guy ended up being a total dick, but she had acted like he could be a serial killer or something.”

  “He cheated on her, ye said?”

  “Yeah. She had been suspicious for a while, too. And that was another thing with her, she was always so intuitive and observant, it was hard to sneak anything past her. When she found out Matt was screwing around behind her back, she was heartbroken, but it was like she wasn’t even surprised.”

  I dropped my gaze to the counter and imagined I could see her face in the marbled stone. I tried to remember her voice, the inflections in her tone and the little nuances I was so sure I’d never forget. But it had already begun to happen, and I hated it. I hated that someone I loved so much could so easily fade from my memory, and with every desperate attempt at recalling the way she laughed, the tears formed in my eyes.

  “Anyway,” I said, clearing my throat and shaking my head. “Do you have any idea of what to do next?”

  Alec tapped the tip of his pen against the counter as he nodded. “Like I mentioned before, I have to go into the office tomorrow and do some work. I don’t want to raise suspicion. But I’m gonna try callin’ the owner of the inn, and after work, I think I’ll go back into Coille Feannag and take a closer look at the place where we found her.”

  Turning to him abruptly, I said in a hurry, “I want to go.”

&nb
sp; He eyed me with skepticism. “I dinnae think ye want to do that, lass.”

  “But I do,” I insisted. “Maybe it’s morbid curiosity but I just … I just need to see it.”

  His eyes held mine with firm resolve, like he was just moments away from scolding me and telling me how I was wrong for feeling the way I felt. I steeled myself, ready to fight back, because who was he to tell me what I could and couldn’t handle? Especially after I’d already seen the photos of my sister’s body, laying gracefully over the rocks. But then, with a deep breath, Alec slowly nodded, and the tension in my shoulders eased.

  “All right,” he relented. “But we willnae be takin’ yer son.”

  I agreed with a nod. It was bad enough that this trip had evolved in the way it had, but I would never be able to live with myself, if I’d exposed him to whatever scene we might find in the woods.

  “Ye should try to sleep,” Alec said, returning his attention back to his work, as if staring at the police report and pictures of my sister would help him fit the pieces together.

  “There’s no point in even trying,” I replied, shrugging.

  “What’s happenin’ in these nightmares yer havin’?”

  I smirked and sniffed a laugh. “Are you a dream analyst now, too?”

  Chuckling gruffly, Alec shook his head. “No. But sometimes, it just helps to talk about them.”

  Inhaling slowly, I crossed my arms and settled against the back of the chair, while I placed my mind back into those woods and forced my eyes to see her cold, unblinking stare and the jagged, sharp pieces of her blinding, white skull. I shivered and slammed my eyelids shut, forcing the darkness to come and black out her face.

  “I just keep seeing her.”

  “Like in the pictures?” he asked.

  “No,” I shook my head and opened my eyes, “not like that. I mean,” I nodded, “yes, yes, like that, in that she’s dead and laying on the rock. But it’s worse. It’s more … graphic and violent, and then, she looks at me. Sometimes, she screams. Sometimes, she talks to me. But in every single dream, she always just … stares at me.”