Page 18 of Bonetide

He looks at me for a long second. “Lass, bones get moved by everything that moves through these woods. Foxes. Pine martens. Bairns sometimes.”

“What the hell is a bairn?”

He frowns like I’m stupid. “Bairns!” He emphasizes, as if saying it louder will help me understand. “A babe. A child. Such as one belonging to a hiker or hill-walker. Tourists who don’t let the whole “free use” philosophy go to waste. I wouldn’t read too much into the bones.”

I nod, though I don’t believe him. I don’t think he believes himself, entirely, but I let it go. Last thing I need is for him to start using other Scottish words I don’t understand.

He comes back into the kitchen with me and we stand there, and he looks at the windowsill behind the sink, where the salt is in its thin neat line.

“This your work,” he begins, nodding at the salt, “or your aunt’s?”

“My aunt’s.”

“I thought so. I’d keep it up, if I were you. Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”

A small, dry, crooked smile that does not reach his eyes. “Well. You don’t want the old woman’s ghost to haunt you, do you?”

I don’t know. Frankly I have a lot of questions for Aunt Effie at the moment.

He gives me his card and tells me to call him directly if anything else happens, day or night. He tells me he’ll have a quiet word at the village shop and ask Mhairi if she’s seen any strangers lingering around longer than usual. He tells me to lock the doors at night. He tells me, almost as an afterthought, that there’s no record of anyone living at the castle across the bay since 1987, but he’s heard talk over the years, and wouldn’t be surprised if someone had been “kipping there” off and on. Old places attract that sort. History has a hold on people.

I stand in the doorway and watch his car go down the road disappearing around the forested bend toward the A896. The track he leaves is clear and obvious in the soft ground.

I close the door, lock it, then sit down at the kitchen table with the basket of recovered flowers in front of me. I begin sorting them, because my hands need something to do. Some have wilted, but most are usable. I’ll press what I can. Tomorrow is another day, after all, and the season still has more blooms to give.

And lord knows what else.

Later that afternoon, I’m at the front window with a cup of tea when I see him.

He is on the red sandstone rocks of his spit across the bay, fully dressed in black pants and a white shirt. His hair is dark and shiny, probably wet. He just stands there, staring at my cottage. His face seems even more obscure than ever, but like before, I can feel his eyes.

Eventually I close the curtain. For some reason it takes effort, like there’s a part of me—that wild and reckless and untrustworthy part—that wants me to keep it open, wants him to keep watching me all night. In some ways I recognize that part, it’s that barbed wire of impulsiveness that runs through me, the very same that caused me to uproot my life on a whim. But on the other hand, it feels like something else, something more, like I’m not in control of my own mind, as ridiculous as that sounds.

I let myself feel his gaze on the back of my hand on the fabric before I take in a deep breath and pull the curtain the rest of the way.

Chapter

Five

I’ve decided I deserve a bath after all the commotion. I get the water nice and hot, the pipes moaning and shaking as I do, as if I’m sharing this cottage with a horny couple, then shake in some of the thyme salt. I know it’s meant for the windowsills, but having it in the water can’t hurt. If anything, maybe it will ease my aching muscles. I have a bunch of bath stuff coming in a box that Maddie said she shipped for me, stuff I couldn’t fit on the plane, but who knows when that will show up at my door.

Once it’s ready, I step inside, nearly eating shit as my foot slips. No wonder Effie had to add the shower, I think. I can’t imagine doing this old and arthritic.

I manage to steady myself then carefully lower myself into the water.

It feels heavenly. I make a note of things that might make the space feel more like mine—whether I last a year or not, I have to start thinking of this place as mine for now or it will never feel like home—such as getting a couple of house plants, maybe installing wood shelving along the wall for fancy salt jars and dried flowers and candles to give it that fashionably-rustic look, when suddenly the skin at the back of my neck begins to prickle.

The bathwater turns ice cold.

Someone is watching me.

Right now.

I can feel it. Feel them.

Feel eyes at the window behind me.