Before they went upstairs to gather her things, they stopped at the front desk to check out. Michael made one call to his brother Alec and then tried to hurry Isabel along. She was still so rattled she would have forgotten her cell phone and charger if he hadn’t seen it on the bed and taken it. He carried her bag and held her hand as they left the hotel. Walking through the lobby, Isabel attempted to look self-assured and at ease, but on the inside she was fighting the urge to run. She furtively scanned in all directions in case the redheaded stranger was still there, lurking in the shadows.
Once they were back in the car and pulling away from the hotel, Isabel could breathe again. “If that man hadn’t looked so angry, I might have waited until he reached me and talked to him to find out what he wanted, but he was scowling as he rushed toward me in the lobby.” She stopped to shake her head as if to clear her thoughts. “If he was running to me. He could have just been in a hurry. I feel so foolish now. I overreacted, and just because I saw a man with red hair, I jumped to the conclusion that he was the guy on the corner watching me help Detective Walsh. And so what if he was?” She turned to Michael and admitted, “It was his hostile expression that freaked me out. Maybe because it triggered a memory.”
Michael held his patience and tried not to sound frustrated when he asked, “How come you didn’t mention this guy at the station when Samuel was questioning you?”
“I forgot all about him.”
He nodded. “You said he was on the street?”
“Yes, at the corner,” she explained. “I remember now. I was kneeling next to the detective, and I was trying to stop the bleeding. I looked up and saw him watching me. I remember him because he had red hair.” She added, “I needed help. I don’t know if I called out to him or not. I didn’t think about him after that because I was focused on Walsh.”
“You didn’t call out to anyone.”
“How do you know . . .”
“I watched the video.”
“Right,” she said. She looked out the window and stared at the passing lights, wondering if there was anything else she had forgotten. “I need to watch it, too,” she admitted finally. “Maybe I’ll remember something else. That man . . . He was there for an instant and then gone. Still, I should have remembered him.”
“Samuel needs to know, Isabel.”
She groaned. “Know what? That there was a man standing on the corner for a second? And maybe or maybe not the same man was in the lobby?”
“Yes.”
“I could call tomorrow and tell him. The man in the lobby is probably long gone by now. And it’s late,” she pointed out. “Although . . .”
It was the way she drew the word out that made Michael ask, “Although what?”
“I have an attorney,” she said, looking at him expectantly. “Don’t you think he should talk to Detective Samuel?”
“Okay, I’ll call him,” he said. “And Alec should have the video by now.”
“What video?” she asked.
“There are security cameras in the lobby. Hopefully the redhead’s face will be visible.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if we had a photo of his face?”
They pulled into the driveway a half hour later. The Buchanan house was dark except for a light shining from the kitchen window. They found Alec in front of an open refrigerator drinking milk out of a carton. His hair was sticking up every which way, and Isabel was certain Michael’s call had gotten him out of bed.
“The security recording is on my laptop,” Alec said. “Isabel, you looked like you were seeing a ghost.”
He pulled out a chair at the island for Isabel, then opened his laptop and touched the screen.
Michael stood behind Isabel with one hand on her shoulder while they watched. The cameras were scanning the lobby, and she was disheartened because she couldn’t find the man anywhere. It was when she saw Michael with his arm around her that she spotted him.
“There,” she said, pointing to the screen. “He’s looking down. All you can see is the top of his head.”
“He certainly was in a hurry,” Alec commented.
Isabel didn’t want to think about this any longer. Everything from the past few days was overwhelming. She had to keep reminding herself that, when she was on that street, she hadn’t been given a choice. The man she killed would have killed her and Detective Walsh if she hadn’t been quicker. He chose death the second he raised his gun.
She was eager to get on a plane to Scotland and put the shooting behind her. Eventually Detective Samuel would find out why Walsh had come to Boston. He had told her that Walsh was a detective.
The obvious conclusion was that he was working on a case, and whatever he had uncovered had gotten him shot. Isabel was certain, by the time she returned from Scotland, the investigation would be sorted out, and Detective Samuel would have all the answers.
“Where am I sleeping?” she asked Alec.
Michael answered her. “You and I are both on the third floor. Come on, I’ll go up with you.”
He picked up her bag and followed her up the stairs. They climbed to the second floor and then to the third. She was thinking she could get a nosebleed this high up. He was thinking what a great ass she had.
There were two sconces on either side of the narrow hallway, barely lighting their passageway.
“It’s so quiet and private up here,” she remarked.
The bedrooms were across from each other with a bathroom in between. Michael opened both bedroom doors. “The rooms have queen-size beds.”
“Is that big enough for you?” she asked, smiling.
He shrugged. “I can sleep anywhere.”
Michael placed her bag on a chair adjacent to the window. Banging his head against the ceiling when he turned around, he muttered an expletive. “I can’t seem to remember the ceiling slopes up here.”
“I think it’s cozy.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said as he was walking out.
“Good night, Michael.”
Isabel looked around at her room. The walls were a pale blue with matching curtains, and there was a quilt on the bed that had all the colors of the ocean. It was charming. It wasn’t the Hamilton. It was better. She felt safe here.
While she unpacked and changed into her pajama shorts and top, Michael showered. She waited until he’d gone into his bedroom before she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. She was just about to shut her door and get into bed when she remembered she needed to charge her phone. Neither the phone nor the charger was in her duffel bag. She checked every pocket twice, then dumped everything out of her purse and searched through all the clutter. Not finding it, she stuffed the things she never left home without back into her bag, muttering all the while, even tossing in a few unladylike blasphemies, then decided to ask Michael if he knew where they were. After all, he had helped her pack.
She turned around, and there he was, leaning against the doorframe with her phone and charger in his hand. He hadn’t made a sound, and she wondered how long he’d been standing there. And oh, did he look good. He wore a pair of khaki shorts he hadn’t bothered to button and a white T-shirt that was molded to his body. The man was all muscle and heat, and she had the insane impulse to run to him and throw herself into his arms.
Michael didn’t budge from where he stood. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. God knows he tried.