I pass a tourist trap with a hangman’s noose painted on the window, which reminds me that the Grassmarket had been the site of executions. Nan took me to the “shadow of the gibbet” when it was first unveiled, maybe ten years ago. There’s an old memorial plaque to commemorate some of the executed and, during a renovation, the city had installed dark cobblestones nearby in the shape of a gibbet. Neither Nan nor I has ever been a keen student of history, but when it comes to the macabre, we’re there.
As I wonder where exactly that spot is, I catch a flicker of movement. I spin so sharply that my sneaker squeaks. An empty street stretches before me.
At another flicker, I lift my gaze to a cigar-shop flag fluttering half-heartedly in the night breeze.
I roll my shoulders and stretch in place with one foot braced against the storefront. I drink in the smell of a recent rain and the faint odor of cigars. When I listen, there is only the wind, tripping along the narrow street.
I am alone with my grief and my regret and my rage and my guilt, the last one slipping away as I acknowledge how much I needed this break. A chance to run myself to exhaustion, letting tears dry on my face. A chance to lower my guard and gather my thoughts, and then return to face the horror of my grandmother’s death.
I finish my stretches and gaze out on the street as a long exhale hisses between my teeth. It is lovely here. Peaceful and quiet and beautiful in a haunting way. I want to linger, but I have what I came for—a sliver of solitude—and it’s time to head back.
I’m lunging into a run when a woman yelps. My first reaction is no reaction at all. It may be quiet, but there are people around. That playful yelp only makes me long for a moment that is, for now, beyond my grasp. I can’t even recall the last time I went to a bar with friends.
No one on their deathbed ever wished they spent more time in the office.
Nan’s admonition from last Christmas creeps up my spine. She was right, of course. If something happened to me tonight—a slip-and-fall or drunk driver—would I regret not making the major-crimes section? Or regret the fact it’s been six damn months since I had dinner with friends? A year since I went on a date, and even that was more hookup than romantic evening.
I could swear that first cry sounded playful, like a woman being surprised by a friend, but when it comes again, it’s a stifled shriek. A shriek of delight? A woman out for the evening, a little tipsy, goofing around with friends.
Maybe, but I still strain to hear more, just in case.
Muffled whispers. The scuff of shoes on cobblestones. Then silence.
I pivot toward the sounds as my hand drops toward the holster I am obviously not wearing. Blame five years of patrol duty, with a preference for long nights and rough neighborhoods.
The sounds came from down a narrow lane ahead. I roll my steps as I ease that way, and my fingers itch for the knife I carry when I jog at home.
My fingers close around my phone instead. I pull it out, ready to call 911.
911? Wrong country. What is the emergency number here? Damn it, I should know that. I’m sure Mom and Nan and even Dad all hammered it into my head when I was young. 511? No, that’s traffic information at home. 411? Directory assistance.
My thumb grazes the screen, but my eyes stay fixed ahead. Get a better idea of what I’m facing, and then I’ll pause to search for the local number.
As I approach the end of the lane, I clutch my phone in one hand. In the event of urgent trouble, I’ll dial 911 and pray it forwards to an emergency service. I don’t expect to need that, though. The closer I draw to the lane, the more I’m convinced that I’m about to interrupt an intimate moment. The woman’s date had surprised her and made her shriek. They’d goofed around and then whispered together and then it fell to silence as they settled into a private spot.
That doesn’t mean I turn around. I’ve rousted couples in dark alleys because what I heard didn’t quite sound consensual. Half the time, I’ve been right.
I ease into a shop alcove. At the first indication of shared passion, I’ll scoot. I hear nothing, though. Maybe they’ve moved on, seeking true privacy—
A whimper.
I press my hand to the wall and lean as far as I dare, my eyes half shut as I strain to listen.
A muffled sound, one I can’t make out.
Damn it, give me a little more.
I lift my phone and open the browser. I’m halfway through typing “Scotland emergency phone number” when a cry comes, a stifled word that is unmistakable.
Help.
Then another cry, this one of pain and surprise, and I bolt from my spot before I realize what I’m doing. I swing into the lane to see …
Nothing.
It’s more alley than lane, stacked with boxes and bins for trash pickup. The cobblestones stretch into darkness, and I race along them, following the whimpers and muffled cries of a woman, until I reach the back corner and look around it to see …
An empty lane.
It’s a narrow alleyway between the rows of shops, and there is nothing in sight.
I squint into darkness lit only by a single flickering lamp over a door. Even without better lighting, I am absolutely certain there’s no one here.
They must have moved on. I misunderstood, and the couple moved on.
I’m turning away when a gasp sounds behind me. I spin, fists rising, to see that empty expanse of alley again.
Then there’s a flicker. The shifting of light. A flash of cornflower blue, hovering like a haze. The haze becomes a dress. A long dress, half-translucent. A glimpse of light hair. Then another gasp, as the wisp of a figure falls back against the wall, only to disappear as she strikes it.
What the hell?
I blink hard. A projection? It must be. Some kind of video projection from a tour, a young woman in an old-fashioned dress struck down by an unseen assailant. I peer up at the opposite wall, looking for the malfunctioning projector.
Something moves behind me. Do I catch the whisper of a foot on stone? The smell of another body? Or just a shift in air pressure. Nan would call it a sixth sense, but all I know is that my gut says “Turn around now!” and I obey.
I wheel just as something swings toward my head. I spin out of the way and catch a glimpse of rough rope gripped in a man’s hand.
Synapses fire, a connection made. An article glimpsed in passing. Edinburgh. Two bodies found in the past month. Strangled. Old rope around their necks.
A spark of realization, smothered by the far more important fact that I am being attacked. This is not a malfunctioning ghost-tour video.
My arm smacks up into his, and he staggers back grunting in shock. His face rises, hidden in the shadow of a dark hoodie. Then the hood falls half back and—
It’s the man from the coffee shop. The man I spilled coffee on.
If asked what he looked like, I’d have said I had no idea. I only saw his shirtfront, dappled with coffee droplets. But I never ask witnesses whether they would recognize someone if they saw them again, because half the time they’ll say no, but if I put a lineup before them, the memory will slam back.
That’s what happens now. I thought I didn’t see his face earlier, but then this man looks at me—white guy, midthirties, average face, light hair, dark eyes—and I know him. I know him beyond any doubt.
I spilled a few drops of coffee on some suit in a crowded shop, and now he’s in this alley, dressed in a black hoodie, with a length of fraying rope in his hand.
It makes no sense, and that is where I fail. My foot was flying up to kick him, and then I recognized him and I falter. He feints out of my way. I stumble and twist to right myself and in a blink, the rope is around my neck.
I claw to get my fingers under it as twenty thoughts explode at once. Twenty instructions, and above all of them, the scream that I should do better. I’ve taught women how to fight off an attacker in every situation, and here I am, uselessly clawing at a rope already around my neck.
It happened so fast.
It happened so goddamn fast, and part of me screams a curse for every time I calmly told some woman how to fight this. Get your fingers under whatever is choking you. Free some air. Claw. Kick. Punch. Scream.
Scream? I can’t breathe. How the hell can I scream?