I squint down the hall. The setup is the same as Findlay’s place, though since it’s a single-family dwelling, the basement seems to be mostly storage. Except his voice comes from our right, from what was the owner’s storage room in his apartment. Both doors along that wall are shut. Light emanates from the second one. I point it out for Gray and get another of those curt nods. He’s already noticed.
As we move, Findlay’s voice comes clearer.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Isla,” he says. “What is your maid up to?”
Isla’s voice is weak but firm. “And I will say, one more time, that I have no idea. You know her better than I do. She is always up to something, is she not?”
“Who sent you to my rooms? Detective McCreadie? Your brother?”
“Neither. I found the address in Catriona’s room. I was concerned. As you know, she is a former thief, and I feared the address might indicate a future target.”
Silence. In that silence, though, I catch a small intake of breath, and my gut clenches. She isn’t volunteering these answers. He’s torturing her. Each time she doesn’t give him what he wants, he does something, and she’s stifling her cries.
The imposter continues, “McCreadie went to your house for tea. You discussed the case. He said it was only tea, but I know better. He brings Gray into his confidence. Uses him and takes the credit and keeps me out of it.”
“I am certain you could have joined us if you asked.”
“I did ask. He made excuses.”
To protect Findlay. Yes, McCreadie uses Gray’s help, but he’s not doing it to take credit. He’s doing it to avail himself of whatever resources will help solve a crime.
I remember that first night, when he’d been quick to send Findlay off with a coin for a pint. Giving him plausible deniability, should anyone in the department take issue with McCreadie bringing Gray into his investigation.
Did the real Findlay know he was being sidelined? Did he care? The imposter certainly does, because it meant he was kept out of the center of the investigation … into the crimes he was committing.
Findlay continues, “What did he talk about at tea?”
“The investigation.”
A sharp intake of breath then. Her sarcasm earned her a stronger punishment, and this time Gray hears it. His chin shoots up, eyes riveted to the door. As Isla catches her breath inside, Gray starts forward.
I grab his jacket, but he jerks free. I lunge and grab it and wrench him back. He wheels on me, face contorting in a snarl.
“Do you want to get your sister killed?” I whisper as I drag him farther from the door.
The look on his face is enough to make me tense for a blow. It’s a murderous look, as if I’m the one holding his sister hostage, threatening her life.
“I’m sorry, Duncan,” I whisper, abandoning my Catriona voice. “I’m sorry I can’t let you go to your sister. Findlay didn’t just try to strangle me. He murdered Archie Evans. Murdered Rose Wright. Tortured Evans. Mutilated Wright. If you throw open that door, he will hurt her. I will not let you throw open that door. Understand?”
He stares at me, the fury draining from his face, replaced by … Oh, hell, I’m not even sure what replaces it. I only know that in that moment, I am seeing not Catriona’s boss but the man within. I see him, and he sees me, and he blinks and then shakes his head, as if throwing it off.
“Please listen to me, Duncan,” I whisper. “Whatever you do after this—fire me for insubordination or kick my ass to the curb—I don’t care. I care that your sister is in that room, with a guy who will kill her if we startle him.”
He holds my gaze. Holds it so fast it’s hard to keep from looking away. His chin dips, just a little. Then he glances at the door.
“We need a distraction,” I whisper. “Get Findlay away from her without making him think someone’s in the apartment. I can do that. When he opens the door, you’ll be waiting—”
I stop. My gaze swings to the door. A moment ago, the imposter had been interrogating Isla. But now he’s stopped.
I take one cautious step toward the door, holding my breath as I listen, tensed for the muffled sound of pain. Instead, the knob turns.
I backpedal, my arms going out to shield Gray. He’s a layperson, and it’s like one of those video games where cops have to take out the shooters without killing any bystanders. The principle is hammered into my brain. Protect the bystander.
This works much better if the bystander is willing to be protected. I fall back, arms going up, knife in hand, and suddenly there is no one behind me. For a guy of Gray’s size, he moves like a damned ghost. That knob turns and somehow, he’s in front of me, and I’m backpedaling into shadow like a helpless maiden.
Findlay steps out. He’s heard a noise, right? Our whispering must have been louder than I thought. That’s the obvious answer. But no, Findlay strolls out, the door opening to block the big guy lunging toward him, and there’s a near-comical moment where I think it’s going to smack Gray in the face. It doesn’t. Because that’s when Findlay hears or senses something. He glances over, almost nonchalantly. And he sees Gray.
FORTY-TWO
This is the moment. This is where the imposter will falter in shock, and Gray will save the day by the sheer virtue of being a big looming shape in the darkness. It seems to happen exactly like that. The imposter falls back, eyes widening. Gray grabs him by the shirtfront and hauls him off his feet … and the imposter flinches, head ducking as if to ward off a blow. Then the imposter swings. I see the glint of metal at the last second. A hammer swinging straight for Gray’s temple. Before I can open my mouth, it smashes into his forehead.
Gray crumples. And what do I do? Nothing. I stay exactly where I am, and that is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
The attack happened so fast that I didn’t have time to burst from the shadows. I’m right where I started, backed up into the darkness, knife in hand, and when Gray goes down, I brace myself to fly out and attack. But I don’t get that chance. Gray collapses, and in the next heartbeat, the imposter is behind the open door, shielded from me.
I could still rush forward. That’s the hard part—that I choose not to. The imposter hasn’t seen me. I’m not invisible. Compared to Gray, though, I am. That’s all he saw—Gray lunging at him—and between the shock of that and the relief and delight of outsmarting him, he never thought to look for anyone else.
Now the imposter is behind the door, and he has Gray by the shoulders, and I stay in the shadows as he drags Gray into the room.
“Look who came to your rescue,” Findlay calls to Isla. “It’s your lucky day. I don’t need to torture you after all. Let’s see if you’ll talk when your brother is the one in pain.”
The door is closing slowly. So slowly that I have time to dart to the other side and catch it with my boot toe. I wait for Findlay to notice.
Come on, asshole. You already missed a second person in the hall. You can’t also miss the fact that this door isn’t shutting.
I want him to see it. I have my knife ready. He’ll walk over to check the door, and I’ll give him an even bigger shock than Gray did.
He doesn’t check the door. If he notices it didn’t quite shut, he doesn’t care. He’s riding high on his success and chortling at having leverage over Isla, leverage that may mean he doesn’t need to resort to torture, which really isn’t his thing. I don’t want to know what he’d planned to do with that hammer, but he must have left looking for something to use it for—maybe splints under the fingernails again.
Now he’s talking to Isla about how he’s going to torture Gray and make her watch, and the glee in his voice could be mistaken for sadism, but I know better. His glee comes from knowing he’s going to get what he wants without torture. Describing it will be enough for her to cave.
“Where should I start?” he says. “For a doctor, the hands are the obvious choice, but I get the feeling Dr. Gray values his brain more. That was quite a blow to his head. What if…?”
“Stop,” Isla says. “Please.”