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As she continued at power walk speed, Kris eyed the trees that bordered the loch. The sun shone, and everything should appear cheery and safe. Except in those trees shadows reigned and damn near anyone could hide.
Her gaze went to the water, where several boats bobbed, but the surface remained as impenetrable as interrogation room glass. The loch and the forest had a lot in common.
She glanced toward the distant hills. Those, too, were as mysterious as midnight. She was going to need Liam’s help to figure this out. Unless he’d tried to kill her.
Then he was fired.
A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped as Kris reached the outskirts of Drumnadrochit. She really needed to stop thinking so much. Her mind was twirling in circles, and she was beginning to get seasick.
Or maybe it was just the reheated coffee. Her gaze went to Jamaica’s place. Kris hated reheated coffee. It rolled around in her stomach like standing water in a freeway pothole—complete with the top layer of oil.
“Glurk,” Kris muttered, gaze still on the coffee shop; then she shook her head.
Not yet.
First Alan Mac, then Effy Cameron—Kris needed to tell her landlady that the door to the cottage was broken—then fresh coffee.
She strode to the station. This time the constable wasn’t standing out front. He wasn’t even working inside.
“He was called to Dochgarroch,” the woman at the desk informed her. “Something was stuck in the lock.”
“I don’t remember there being a Dochgarroch Lake.”
“Not a lake loch, lass.” The receptionist grinned. “And would ye like to say that five times fast?”
Since she appeared to be waiting for Kris to answer, Kris shook her head, and the woman continued. “A lock on the canal. Helps with the boats and such.”
“And this is Alan Mac’s problem, why?”
“We won’t know until he returns.”
Kris thanked her and left. She had a bad feeling she knew what was stuck in Dochgarroch Lock.
Another body.
Strolling back through the village, Kris heard someone call her name. She glanced toward the coffee shop. A hand reached out the door, beckoning her with a go-cup. She could have sworn she saw Kris written in the steam that trailed upward.
Kris hesitated. She hadn’t actually talked to Alan Mac, but she’d tried. That should be enough for at least one cup of the good stuff in reward.
She looked both ways—waiting for a tour bus, followed by a few bikers, to trundle by—then crossed the street, taking the cup from the outstretched hand and her first blessed sip as she stepped inside.
The place was empty.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Jamaica, who was dressed in an eye-shockingly bright yellow skirt that reached to her ankles and an equally bright orange peasant blouse, raised her sculpted brows. “What you mean?”
Kris lifted her chin toward the bare tables even as she slurped coffee like she’d been denied for weeks instead of hours.
“Oh, dat.” Jamaica waved her hand dismissively. “Such a nice day. Everyone take dere coffee to go. We’ll get busy again once de sun go down.”
“How much do I owe you?” Kris asked.
“On de house. You seemed to need it.” She narrowed her hazel eyes. “Why you walkin’ down de street like a zombie?”
“I … uh—” Kris took a swig of coffee. Should she tell Jamaica about being tossed into the lake? Since Kris had no proof that she had been tossed, probably not.
“You searchin’ for Alan Mac?”
