“Because there was nothing to tell. The Manse is in the Scottish countryside—take a look.” I fling a hand toward the mountains that stand implacably beyond the glass. “Animals die. They have to do it somewhere. What do you want from me?”

“You weren’t in the slightest bit spooked?” I look at him warily, sensing a trap. If he was in a suit, I think, if we were in a sterile room in the police station, for example, with thick-painted walls and a crappy coffee machine—if we were there, rather than here as we are with him in jeans, I would have a chance. I might see whatever is coming. His eyes are holding mine, and there’s no longer a smile in their vicinity. “What did the Post-it note say?”

Oh dear God. Now I look like a raving loony. “You tell me. You obviously have it.”

“We do. We took another pass at the garden after Ali told us about the animals. It’s suffered from water damage, but the lab will figure out what it says in time. Why don’t we shortcut that?” He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, exasperation carefully reined in—real exasperation this time—but I can sense it beneath the surface. “Come on, Ailsa, what did it say?”

“I don’t remember exactly.”

“Roughly will do.”

“I thought you would think I’m overreacting. I thought you would think I’m nuts.” It sounds like a lament. It is a lament.

“Because you received a threat pinned to a bird?”

“What?” Then I twig. “Oh, you thought it was a threat to me.” It’s almost funny.

He cocks his head. “It’s not?”

“No. It’s a response.”

“A response. From you?” I nod. His confusion is even funnier. “Saying what?”

“Saying . . . saying . . . yes, okay, I’m going to tell you! It said: fuck off, I’m not scared and I’m not leaving.”

I may actually have surprised him. He sits back in his seat, wide-eyed, and takes a sip of his coffee. “And you, erm, stuck it to the dead bird? With a safety pin?”

“Yes. Ask Ben—he watched me do it.” Then I add miserably, “Is that . . . It’s not against the law, is it?”

He blinks. “No, I don’t think so. If you’d pinned it to a dead human, that would be different.”

“Good to know,” I say faintly.

“Who were you expecting to receive this message?”

“I don’t know. Really, I don’t.” The litany of names cycles through my head: Fiona, Ben, Ali, Jamie. And I can’t see what any of them would have to gain. The nutcase stranger theory might actually be more realistic. “Believe me, if I knew that, I’d be telling you.”

“Really.” He’s surveying me again, with those ice-blue eyes above a freckled nose. “I know you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not—”