A Circle of Crows

by Kelsey Kingsley

  “Where are ye goin’?”

  “To the bathroom. Is that okay with you?”

  Her snarky attitude was disconcerting and with narrowed eyes, I followed her.

  “Why would I have a problem with that?”

  She groaned, pausing at the doorway as she thrust a hand into her hair. “I don’t know. I just … I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m just …” Groaning again, she turned around to face me and wrapped her arms around her middle tightly. “I don’t know what the hell I'm doing here anymore. I’m exhausted, I’m terrified, I have no idea what the hell we’re going to do about any of this, this, this … shit …”

  Her voice trailed away to sink into the plush carpet beneath our feet and the dark, wood paneling surrounding us on the walls. I had feared her possible regret, and there it was. I could see it written plainly in the deepened lines between her brows, accompanied by the dark circles beneath her eyes.

  “Are we even safe here anymore?” she asked, finally meeting my gaze.

  That had crossed my mind, too. But now that it was confirmed the killer knew I was involved, it didn’t seem we were safe anywhere. Nobody would be safe around me—especially not her.

  “Maybe ye should leave. Go find a hotel, leave Scotland, anywhere away from me.”

  “And split up? Oh, yeah, that sounds like a great idea.”

  Laying a hand over my forehead, I groaned before nodding. She was right and I wasn’t thinking clearly, not with everything else I had on my mind. We didn’t need to split up or find somewhere else to be. What we needed—both of us—was to finally sleep and clear our weary minds.

  “Let’s not talk anymore tonight,” I declared. “Try to sleep. I’ll do the same, and we’ll figure everythin’ out tomorrow.”

  She relented easily with a bob of her head, seeming so heavy on her neck and shoulders. Then, I left her without a kiss on the forehead despite how much my lips begged, and retreated to my room four doors down from hers. Knowing damn well I wouldn’t be sleeping for yet another night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ROSIE

  Behind the door and secluded inside my bedroom in a strange house and even stranger country, I felt more alone than I ever had before in my life. Not even the first night after my separation from Tom could compete with the unsettled weight of my heart right now, and all I wanted was to pick up the phone and call my sister.

  “God, Gracie,” I whispered to the flowers on the wallpaper and bedspread. “I hate this.”

  My voice was tangled in the aching emotions clotted tightly in my throat and I held my hand to my chest, certain that just the ache of missing my little sister alone could kill me. And in a way, I wished that it would. Then, I wouldn’t be here anymore, scared for my life and tangled in an anguish-fueled affair with a surly Scotsman. I’d be with Grace, wherever she was, and this persistent pain and guilt would end.

  Desperate to talk to someone who wasn’t residing in this house, I pulled my phone out of my sweatpants and called the second person on my list of favorite contacts.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, everything okay?” Tom asked hurriedly.

  My eyes flooded at the sound of his comfortable voice. With the back of my hand pressed to my mouth, I choked down a sob and shook my head. “No,” I told him, finding no reason to lie.

  “What happened? Anything new?”

  With the invitation, I told him about the bone-chilling trip to Coille Feannag and Gracie’s ring. Alec hadn’t said as much but I wondered if he might have a suspect in mind at this point. I said so to Tom and he listened quietly in the way he always had.

  Then, when I reached the point of the story when we got back to the house, my eyes fell to the jeans I’d stripped off earlier. The same jeans that had been shucked to the floor in the foyer, along with my red cotton underwear. My body instinctively tensed with excruciating pleasure at the memory of Alec’s body against me, inside me, only to be swiftly accompanied by the guilt.

  “Goddammit, Tom,” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes from those jeans and the memories of being held against that wall.

  “What?” His voice sounded so tense and taut, that I feared it would snap and break altogether if he spoke again.

  “I had sex with him,” I confessed, wiping a hand over my mouth. “I wasn’t thinking. I was terrified—we both were. We had just gotten back to the house and I … I don’t know, it just happened. And now, I feel … I feel like the worst person on the fucking planet.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “Jesus, Rosie …”

  “I know,” I said, as the urge to cry found me again. “I never should have let it happen. Like, what the hell is even wrong with me? Why, why would I do this shit when Gracie is gone and—”

  “Rosie, if you never slept with someone ever again, Grace would still be gone.”

  “I-I know that, but—”

  “I get that maybe it wasn’t the best time for it to happen, but people react to trauma in crazy ways. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

  I sat on the bed and pulled my knees to my chest. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Like, do you remember the time we got into that car accident?”

  “Yeah,” I replied quietly.

  Of course, I remembered. It was hard to forget. It had been snowing, a rare occurrence in April, and the roads had been slick. Tom lost control of the car and spun out, crashing into a telephone pole, and deploying the airbags in the car. Miraculously, we both came out unscathed, and when we got home from the hospital, I broke down in hysterics. Moments later, I found myself in his arms on the living room floor, making love and numbing the events of our traumatic afternoon.

  “That was different though,” I insisted. “We could have died.”

  “And you thought you could have died tonight.”

  I opened my lips to protest but quickly closed them to remind myself that he was right. The fear of death had grasped us both firmly around the necks, and at the first moment we felt safe, we had thrown ourselves headfirst into the most primal thing our bodies know to do.

  After all, there can be no life without sex.

  “And Rosie,” Tom continued, “even if that wasn’t the case, even if you just wanted to drown your sorrows by having meaningless sex with some guy in Scotland, you’re a grown-ass woman. You don’t have to make excuses, and you don’t have to feel guilty for it.”

  I laid my head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. I was convinced that at any moment the crown molding would fall in jagged, splintered bits of wood, to leave me encased in a tomb of pain and sadness, as I remembered the last conversation I ever had with my sister. The one where I had encouraged her to live dangerously and throw herself at a man she barely knew. I was convinced that conversation had gotten her killed. So, why should I be able to live to tell the tale of my tryst with a Scotsman, when she was now laying in a morgue?

  “I don't deserve it,” I whispered to the crystal chandelier.

  “What?” Tom asked.

  “I don't deserve it,” I spoke louder, enunciating every word and ensuring that he heard me.

  “What do you mean?”

  My fist landed against the bed, dealing a pathetic blow to the fluffy blanket. “Never mind,” I said. “Never mind. I'm going to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Rosie, come on. Talk—”

  “I’m done talking for now, okay?” I replied, choking on the rise of emotion. “I'll call you tomorrow. Tell TJ I love him and that I'll call tomorrow.”

  He sighed. I knew he didn't want to hang up and let me go. I knew he was afraid. It crossed my mind that I might never get the chance to call again, and that this could be the last time I ever heard his voice. But none of that mattered anymore, as I denied him the chance to say goodbye and hung up the phone.

  ***

  Wet, cold soil gave way beneath my feet as I ran between the unseen figures of trees. I felt them; their skeletal branches whipping my naked arms and reachi
ng for my ankles, raking their twisted fingers through my hair. My lungs worked tirelessly, unable to take a full and deep breath of chilled air, as my legs begged to stop. To sit and rest beneath the canopy of leaves not yet fallen. But the persistent snap and crunch of twigs was coming closer, and I needed to keep running.

  An opening in the trees gave way to a field of cut grass and clear sky. I looked upward to see the stars and heavenly sky, grateful for the gentle touch of wind against my face. For a few deep breaths, I walked with my eyes on the sky, unafraid for a moment of what dwelled in the forest.

  “Rosie …”

  The call came from somewhere in the distance. It was Alec, his voice carried by the wind, its tone full of passion and affection. I smiled, remembering the brief moments of our coupling with a rush of warmth between my legs. I wanted him. I wanted him so damn much, again and again, for whatever time we had together. I stared at the sky, hoping he would call to me once more so that I might know the direction in which his voice came from, so I could go to him. I waited and listened, deaf to the footsteps against dead leaves behind me and oblivious to the presence that now enveloped the clearing I stood in. And when his voice didn’t call, and I brought my gaze back down to the empty field, there was Gracie.

  Goosebumps scattered over my arms like raindrops, trickling all the way down to my naked toes, as I stared at her soulless eyes. Her cracked, peeling lips were pulled back from her teeth with a sinister grin, one of malice and frightful intent. As the stink of rotted flesh permeated the sliver of air between us, I begged my legs to run, but they were frozen, stuck to the damp ground and freezing grass.

  “Let me go,” I managed to croak through trembling lips. “Gracie, please. Let me go.”

  She sneered as she raised a bony hand, barren of flesh. Her engagement ring hung loose from one finger, rattling against the bone. She reached out and grasped my face tightly, and I opened my mouth to scream but the sound trapped in my throat.

  “Don’t forget about me, Rosie,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare forget about me.”

  Then, she opened her mouth. Wider and wider, her jaw unhinged, until her chin touched her chest.

  And then, she screamed.

  “““

  “Did ye sleep?” Alec asked the next morning, as I walked into the kitchen to take a seat at the table.

  “What do you think?”

  A cup of coffee was placed on the table beneath my eyes, and I looked up to see him standing over me. His expression pained me, reminding me too much of what had happened the night before when we’d returned from the forest. I knew he wanted to talk, and I knew what he was going to say. But I didn’t want to hear any of it. I didn’t want to listen to him say we’d never do it again or that it never should have happened, because as much as I also believed that, I didn’t have it in me to accept it.

  “Rosie …”

  The sound of my name on his lips reminded me of our time in the foyer and of my nightmare, and I closed my eyes to the tendrils of steam rising from the mug.

  “I don’t want to do this right now, Alec,” I said.

  “But we do need to talk about it,” he pressed firmly, sitting beside me. “We cannae just ignore that it happened.”

  I lifted my head abruptly to stare at him. “And why not?”

  “Because I dinnae want to,” he retorted, raising his voice a bit. Then, wiping a head over his mouth, he diverted his eyes and continued, “I just … I need to know that it willnae happen again.”

  I looked away from him, to point my gaze out the window and toward the garden where we had first kissed. I remembered his whisky-coated lips and tongue and craved them now as much as I had then. Feeling so much all at once was exhausting, and now, the ache of rejection was added to my collection of fear, anger, grief, lust, and despair. It made me wonder when I’d ever be able to sleep again.

  “It—”

  “Rosie, it’s not that I dinnae fancy ye,” he said, hurrying with his excuses. “I do. I fancy ye a lot, and that’s the problem. Because once this is over, and it will be soon, I know ye’ll have to leave. And I dinnae think I’ll have it in me to let ye go if we’re too … involved.”

  I swallowed at the sticky boulder in my throat, before replying, “Isn’t it too late for that?”

  That response shut him up for a moment. He sat there, dumbfounded, as neither of us touched our coffee. As right as I knew he was, I hoped he would take it back. I wanted him to reopen the door he just closed, in the event we found ourselves needing to cross that threshold again. But he didn’t, and as he stood from the table in a hurry and muttered an apology, I bit my lip to stop myself from crying and again longed for this all to be over.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ALEC

  “So, ye’re tellin’ me ye never want her again,” Rick said, re-bandaging one of the many cuts on his hand that he’d obtained from yesterday’s gardening.

  “I didnae say that,” I replied, stepping inside Rick’s study. “And what the hell did ye do? Get into a brawl with the lawn mower?”

  “Ha-ha,” he grumbled sardonically. “For yer information, mate, I finally decided to tackle my mother’s rose bushes.”

  “Ah,” I said, nodding. “I see they won.”

  “That, they did,” he muttered with a sigh, before wincing at the sting of a particularly deep wound. Then, he asked, “If ye do want her, then why the hell are ye rejectin’ her?”

  “I seem to remember havin’ this same conversation not too long ago.”

  Not always one to tolerate sarcasm, Rick groaned and tossed the bandage wrappers into the rubbish bin. “I get it, ye don’t wanna get involved with a woman who lives thousands of miles away and wouldnae be able to see ye for months at a time—”

  “Ah, well, when ye put it that way, it doesnae sound so bad,” I quipped, smirking in his direction, as I made myself comfortable on the sofa.

  “Fuckin’ hell, ye gobshite, let me speak,” he exclaimed in jest, laughing as he shook his head. “What I was gonna say is, even though it would be a shite situation, don’t ye think ye’d be stupid to just let her go, if ye truly like her so much?”

  I opened my satchel and pulled out the notepad I’d been writing on. I stared studiously at my scribbled handwriting, while thinking about what Rick had said. My eyes saw the black ink, the crossed T’s and dotted I’s, but I wasn’t registering what was written or what should come next in the investigation. All I could focus on was how badly I wanted to rush upstairs and have my way with her, and how horribly I felt for making her believe I regretted what had happened between us.

  “She’s keepin’ me from thinkin’ about the case,” I admitted. “She’s a bloody gorgeous distraction. And, not only that, but every fuckin’ time somethin’ happens between us, it upsets her. I dunno if it’s the guilt, grief, or both, but I dinnae think she can handle this on top of all that.”

  Rick scoffed from his desk, and I looked up to see him shaking his head. “And who the fuck are you to make that decision for her?”

  “Ah, fuck off,” I fired back, thrusting a hand in his direction.

  “She’s a big girl, Alec. I think she knows what she can handle.”

  “I’m not talkin’ about this anymore,” I concluded brashly. “Ye can focus on how you havnae been with a woman in a fuckin’ century, and keep yer nose out of my own business.”

  Laughing at my attempt to scold him, my friend raised his voice to a shrill tone and said, “Ye willnae speak to me like that, young man. There’ll be no supper for ye tonight. Now, get up to yer room and think about what ye just said.”

  With a hearty chuckle, I crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it in his direction. Then, without another word, we turned to our respective work and settled into the melody of the cuckoo clock behind his father's antique desk. The monotonous tick and tock lulled me away from Rosie and back toward her sister, as I stared at the notes I'd jotted down during the endless nights of pondering. Finley's name stared back i
n big, bold lettering—and underlined twice and circled in a frantic spiral for good measure—and as always, with a mind of its own, my hand reached to tug at my hair.

  He did it. I dinnae ken where, I dinnae ken how, but he fuckin’ did it.

  The clues were all there. His suspicious questioning, his sudden silence in the car, the abrupt need to see me outside of work. And of course, I couldn't forget the mysterious appearance of Grace's ring on the stone and the message directly intended for me. Few people were aware of my private investigation, and of them, Finley was the only possible suspect. Every clue lined up in a neat little row, each one fitting into place to point directly at my partner, but my mind struggled to come to terms with it.

  But it also made sense. Rosie had said Grace was a suspicious person by nature and wary of trusting strange people. She hadn't even given herself the permission to sleep with a man she'd enjoyed the company of because she hadn't known him well enough. The area she'd been in would have been busy, it always was, and a public abduction seemed unlikely without someone noticing.

  “No,” I muttered aloud, shaking my head. “She wouldae been lured by trust. He'd have been someone she could trust …”

  If he had shown her his badge, she would have trusted Finley. If she'd been made aware that he was a detective, he could've gained her initial cooperation with ease. And then, once she was within his grasp, well …

  “But why can’t I see it?”

  Both hands were thrusted into my hair, gripping and tugging until my scalp ached. The signs were all there, but Finley just didn't fit the profile. There wasn't a malicious bone in the man's body. He had two young children, a lovely wife, and an enviable home. It was true we rarely know who someone is beneath the façade they show the world, but something about this wasn't right.

  With the help of another scribbled note, I remembered I was meant to head back to The Whispering Crow to check their guest books. After collecting my things from Rick's study and wishing him a good day, I left the room and hoped I'd find something at the inn to steer me in a different direction.