Page 1

Prologue

CAMERON

As I turned down the next street, I slowed at the sight of the building I was looking for. My heart rate increased. There was no sign of any vehicle out front that might belong to him. The small garden that flanked the pathway up to the building’s main door was unkempt and unloved. I buzzed the top flat, his, to check if he was home. As I waited, I kept looking over my shoulder, acting stupidly shifty. I forced myself to relax while I held my breath. I buzzed again.

There was no answer.

Buzzing one of his neighbors’ doors would be risky. I was floundering on what to do when I remembered Shona McIver complained years ago when she still lived in a flat above the shops on Main Street. One of her neighbors kept leaving the building key under the doormat, and Shona was raging because she felt it jeopardized their security. There was no mat here, but I stepped back from the door and noted the plant pot of pink flowers that were doing rather well compared to the rest of the front garden. I tipped the pot over, and sure enough, brass gleamed in the sunlight.

With shaky fingers, I picked it up and slid the key into the lock. It turned with a satisfying click. I held the door open with my foot while I returned the key to its hiding spot.

The hair on my neck rose, and I jerked my head up as shivers cascaded down my arms. There was no one on either side of the street, and a glance at the windows of the buildings across the way didn’t reveal anyone watching. I hurried inside, clicking the main door softly behind me.

From the outside, the flats were Edwardian, but I’d been surprised two years ago to discover the interiors had been fully renovated. The stairwell had been redone and even had a hard-wearing carpet runner up the entire set of concrete spirals. I hurried up them, teeth chattering, not wanting to be seen by any of his neighbors, out of breath with tension when I reached the top floor. He had a neighbor opposite, but thankfully, there were no doorbell cameras in sight.

I wondered if they suspected anything about the man who lived across from them. Did they see anything strange? Hear anything strange? Or was I the only person in the world who had connected the dots … all of them pointing to the horrifying possibility that this flat belonged to the man who might be the person behind what the media called the Iron Ripper murders.

Hands shaking, I pulled out the lock pick rake and lock pick hook I’d bought in a DIY store in Oban. Last night I’d watched a few videos online on how to use them, so I crouched at his door and slipped the tools from my jacket pocket.

Unfortunately, breaking into someone’s flat wasn’t as easy as the videos made it look.

So tense, so focused, so engrossed in what I was doing, I never heard him approach.

“What the fuck are you doing?” the male voice growled.

I practically jumped out of my skin as the tools slipped from my grasp. Swallowing a squeal of terror, my head whipped over my shoulder and my lips parted in shock.

Part One

1. Forde

Isle of Glenvulin, Scotland

Afew days ago

Exhaustion rode my shoulders as I strolled past my garage toward my house. It was no coincidence my shop was next door because I’d bought the house after the previous mechanic, Bernie, passed away. The garage, Dallas Autocare, was already mine at that point, and it just made sense to live next door. The large bay doors were open, and I could see Rina’s legs underneath an old Ford. Her daughter, Caoimhe, waved to me as I passed. She had a tablet in her hand and was about to get inside a new Volvo. Caoimhe was only twenty-three years old, but she had her Level 3 and 4 EV and Advanced Driver Assistant Systems certification, as well as having recently trained to become a diagnostic technician.

Last November, weeks after Cameron left and threw me into a fucking spiral, I’d undergone a bit of self-improvement, and one of the things I’d decided to change was the fact that between volunteering, handling the garage by myself, and training on the advanced systems to keep myself relevant, I was run ragged. There was a two-bedroom flat above the garage that I’d been renting out as a holiday let, not entirely successfully because of where it was positioned. I posted an ad online for a mechanic, and while the salary was low, it came with a rent-free flat.

Rina reached out to me. She’d been running a garage in Kirkcaldy for years with her daughter until competitors forced her out. She asked if I’d be willing to hire her daughter as well. We came to an agreement, and they moved here in January. We got along well, and for the last few months they’d made my life better. Still, I couldn’t shake this strange exhaustion that followed me around. Aye, I’d gone out on a rescue in the wee hours of the morning with the Leth Sholas Lifeboat Service, but it wasn’t a difficult one. A passenger boat had lost engine power, and we towed them back in.

My therapist would tell me the tiredness was a result of a shitload of emotional unpacking.

Aye, that’s right. I said my therapist.

I shook my head as I let myself into my two-bedroom house. If anyone had told me last year that I’d be seeing a therapist, I would have told them to get their own head checked.

For a second, I leaned against the doorway that led into my small living room and stared around at the carefully curated items. My comfy L-shaped couch. The massive flat-screen TV situated in the media wall that Quinn had custom built for my sound system, vinyl, and CDs. Framed posters of my favorite bands hung on the wall, complemented by drawings of the original artwork my tattoo artist had drawn for some of the designs inked onto my body.

Despite the fact I’d put effort into making this place a home, there was always something missing. It had been missing for as long as I could remember.

Scrubbing a hand over my face, realizing my stubble had grown into an actual beard, I smirked in bemusement as I strolled into the small kitchen at the back of the house.

Maybe it was the news I’d gotten from Quinn last night that was making me feel out of sorts.

My best mate was going to be a dad. Again.

Quinn had his first child when we were young. Heather was now nineteen and living on her own at uni. It seemed impossible that so many years had passed, but Quinn’s son, Angus, would be heading to high school soon, and I was turning thirty-nine in a few weeks. Quinn had been married, had two kids, divorced, and was now married to the love of his life and about to add to their family.