Freya slammed her fist on the table. “He’s lying. He’ll say anything to save his own skin.”
Once again, Sinclair tried to get Freya to come clean, but when she wouldn’t budge, he called a halt. “I’m finished here,” he said as he shut his notebook.
He called out to another officer, who immediately entered the interrogation room and pulled Freya to her feet.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Sinclair muttered something under his breath, then once again gave her a summary of the charges against her. She homed in on the charge of attempted murder, acting as though she were just now hearing about it, though the inspector had spelled out each charge two or three times already.
“Attempted murder? You can’t be serious. I didn’t attempt to murder anyone. That MacKenna woman attempted to murder me. Do your job,” she snapped. “Go arrest her and let me go home.”
Isabel couldn’t watch any longer. “I’m beginning to think she really believes what she’s saying.”
Michael disagreed. “She knows what she did. I doubt she’ll ever own up to it, though.”
“I’m ready to get out of here.” She stood, arched her back to work out the stiffness. “It seems we’ve been sitting for hours.”
Sinclair looked worn out when he joined them, and Isabel didn’t want to keep him, but she still had a few questions.
“Inspector, what made you decide to test MacCarthy’s DNA? And how did you get it?”
Sinclair took a seat and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head before patiently explaining. “Freya has been with any number of men, but her connection to MacCarthy seemed to be stronger than most. I guess it was just a hunch. But a pretty strong one, so I sent a man to MacCarthy’s house to find something—hair, skin, blood—anything we could send to the lab.” He smiled. “Lucky for us, MacCarthy was going bald and there was hair everywhere—on his pillow, in his comb . . .”
“With all the proof against her, I can’t believe Freya still denies everything.”
“She can deny all she wants,” Sinclair said. “Facts don’t lie.”
Before letting them leave, he told them he had all the information necessary to contact them, but he didn’t think they would have to return to the Highlands anytime soon. He would keep them informed of the progress—the courts were glutted with cases now—so it was going to take a while before Clive Harcus, Graeme Gibson, and Freya Harcus had their day in court.
THIRTY-EIGHT
IT WAS TIME TO GO HOME. ISABEL HAD MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT LEAVING THE HIGHLANDS. IT
was such a beautiful land, and the people who lived there were kind and gracious—except for the few who tried to kill her, of course, but they were the exception.
She and Michael met with Donal Gladstone one last time to go over details of the transfer of Glen MacKenna. He had hired a new groundskeeper and told Isabel he knew the man, that he was honest and hardworking and would do a good job. Isabel agreed to stay in contact with Gladstone by email and phone, and told him, if any problems developed, she was confident he could handle them.
After the meeting they drove to Inverness, returned the car to the rental agency, and headed to the airport. Once again Noah came through for them and arranged for two seats in first class.
A teenage girl waiting to check in recognized Isabel and asked for an autograph and a photo.
Isabel was happy to accommodate her and was pleased because the girl didn’t make a big deal about it and didn’t scream.
As she and Michael were walking toward their gate, she said, “I told you my so-called fame would be fleeting and that it would all calm down.” Grinning, she added, “And I was right. Only one person asked for my photo. In another week I’ll be all but forgotten.”
Michael had stopped and was looking over her head. “Uh-huh,” he drawled.
“I did say it would go away. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” he said with a hint of a smile.
“What are you looking at?” She turned around, gasped, and took a hasty step back. In front of her was a small kiosk filled with bottled water, juice, and soft drinks. There was also a rack filled with a popular weekly rag magazine, and there Isabel was, smack-dab on the cover. Xavier was by her side.
He had his arm around her waist and the two of them were staring into the camera. The photo must have been taken at the concert.
“Oh no, no, no,” she whispered. She wanted to run to the gate, but Michael took her hand and kept walking. With her head down, she reached their gate just as the first-class passengers were welcomed aboard. “Okay,” she exhaled. “Now I’m calm again.”
Michael put his arm around her shoulders and gave a reassuring pat. Her face looked as though it were on fire. “Sure you are,” he agreed.
? ? ?
MICHAEL DIDN’T WANT ANY SURPRISES WHEN THEY REACHED BOSTON. HE KNEW THAT NICK
and Noah were back home in Boston to attend a seminar and would be happy for a break. He texted both of them and asked for help when he and Isabel got off the plane. He was concerned there might be a crowd waiting for her.
Thanks to Nick and Noah and their connections, Isabel and Michael were ushered through the terminal to a private door and got out of the airport without much fuss at all.
Isabel had planned to spend the night at the Hamilton Hotel—she had made the reservation from Dunross—but all three men insisted she stay on Nathan’s Bay. No one could get to her there.
Isabel was quiet on the drive. How was she going to get back to Silver Springs? Flying commercial was out of the question, for now anyway.
Michael noticed her worried expression and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m trying to figure out how I can get home. I shouldn’t fly to Silver Springs tomorrow.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” he agreed.
“I’ll cancel the reservation. I suppose I could rent a car and drive . . .”
All three men shouted, “No!” at the same time. Neither Nick nor Noah had driven with Isabel, but they had both heard enough hair-raising stories to know she shouldn’t drive anywhere.
Nick was diplomatic. “It’s not safe when you’re exhausted. You just came back from a long stressful trip.”
Noah nodded. “He’s right. Driving such a long distance would wipe you out. Take it easy for a couple of days.”
“And then what? I’m not ninety. A good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.”
Michael was blunt. “You’re a terrible driver, Isabel.” He took hold of her hand and squeezed, letting her know he didn’t want an argument.
“But I . . .”
“Terrible,” he repeated forcefully.
She was beginning to think he might be right, but she would go to her grave before she admitted it to him. There had been signs, she supposed. Passengers tended to scream when she was driving. Even calm, in-control Michael had done a fair amount of shouting while she was driving him to Nathan’s Bay.