Paranoia tickled Gorrie’s senses as he left the pub. The coincidence of the killer seeking out his wife was just too great—and yet, if someone had come to town so skilled as to make four related murders seem completely unrelated, wasn’t it just possible that he would seek out the one person trying to tie them together and prove they were murders, not accidents?

He, not she. A woman couldn’t have committed these crimes, or wouldn’t.

Why not? Held down Cardha Duff while she injected her? Duff was a wee lass, and if sleeping, might have been easily overwhelmed. The small chest bruise at her ribs might have come from a knee or an arm.

Losh, as Nan would say. You’ll be seeing pipers in the mist next, and soldiers manning castles that haven’t existed in five hundred years.

A schoolteacher in March. Two schoolteachers in Inverness.

Maybe the Yanks all had mid-winter holiday.

Gorrie saw the blue Ford in his driveway and kept going, continuing down the block to Peterson’s house. He put the car in their driveway, then got out and walked back, feeling foolish. A small lorry approached from the opposite direction; he tensed as it slowed, then saw it was only the local gas service.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the driver, leaning out the window. “We’ve had some phone calls of gas smell in the neighborhood this afternoon and evening. Have you smelled anything?”

“No,” said Gorrie.

The man nodded solemnly. “Probably a disturbed person but we’re required to check it out. Missed my dinner over this.”

The man drove on. Gorrie crossed the street and stopped in the front yard next to his house, trying to see past the curtains into the sitting room. He could just make out Nan on the couch. Her visitor sat in the armchair at the corner, back to him.

Nan rose and went to the kitchen. The visitor got up as well, took a look after her, then went to the window. She had short, curly hair and a thin, attractive face.

Why would she look out the window?

Any of a million reasons, Gorrie thought.

Nan returned to the room with a fresh pot of tea. The visitor turned back, gesturing out at the window. They began laughing.

What a fool I’m being, Gorrie told himself. He went back to Peterson’s, got his car, and went around the block as if just coming in.

“Hello there,” he said, stomping his feet at the front door. “Good evening, miss.”

“Hello,” said the Yank, rising as Nan came and took his coat. The visitor held out her hand. “Stephanie Plower.”