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You’d think something so old wouldn’t hurt so much.
    The tox report on the kid Sorcha Logan dragged out of the ocean wasn’t in yet, though he’d had more track lines than the Union Pacific.
    Ben grabbed his jacket, checked for keys and felt the door brush his back on the way out. He paused on the front step and inhaled fresh air. Last night’s storm had blown away the clouds, left the sky thin and clear. He hunched his shoulders against the wind and headed west, down George Street, toward Anstruther’s main drag. Hordes of windows stared out of houses older than his homeland. Chicago’s South Side might not have the charm of this village, with its whitewashed cottages and red clay pan-tiled roofs, but he’d take it a million times over this quaint idyll. Especially with the crumbling seawall, mist-laden air, and the constant beat of waves in the background of every breath he took.
    An old guy came out of the local bar, tipped his cap before moving on. Ben planned to check out the joint later, sample the beer and see what was happening in this small tight-lipped community.
    The sea came unexpectedly into view through an alleyway that led to the beach, and his heart stuttered. Waves pounded the rocks. He braced a hand against a wall to steady himself. What the hell was he doing here?
    A couple of street cleaners stared from across the bend in the road. He lifted his hand in salute, but they eyeballed him as if he didn’t belong.
    Yeah, right. He’d been in friendlier ghettos.
    Straightening up, he dropped his smile and let his six feet three inches do the talking. They didn’t want to be friendly? Not a problem. He examined their faces, though neither man looked away. Maybe they were related to the Logans? One guy looked like Elvis’s shorter, fatter brother and the other, a walking advertisement for Hell’s Angels R Us.
    Ben took out a cigarette and lit up, savoring the smoke he held in his lungs. He blew out a steady stream that curled up into the air and vanished. A police car drove down Burnside Terrace and headed into town, pumping the horn. The street cleaners raised their hands at Sergeant Davy Logan, who drove past without seeing Ben in the shadows.
    Logans, Logans everywhere, and not a cop to trust.
    He crushed out the cigarette.
    Surf boomed against the rocks, unrelenting and angry. Nausea slipped through his stomach and he started walking. Fast. Blocking out the noise, concentrating on each contact his foot made with the sidewalk. Jacob had been killed by people who thought they were above the law. Ben wasn’t about to let a little fear of water stop him from disabusing them of that notion.
    Cutting behind the Fisheries Museum, Ben avoided the last stretch of open water before the harbor. His pulse eased and the smell of deep-fried food made him realize he hadn’t eaten all day. Pushing into the turquoise-and-white-painted chip shop, he breathed in the hot, heavy air that filled him with hunger.
    The line ran nearly to the door. He looked over the chrome divider and saw a free table. Squeezing past people waiting for takeout, he placed his order with a young girl who blushed at his smile. She brought him a soda, and he thanked her, noting her name badge said Kirsty. She was petite and pretty, with a cap full of short brown hair.
    What would a little flirting hurt? Like any other single guy on vacation. Great cover and maybe he could pump her for information.
    Sorcha Logan burst through the entrance with a laugh and a smile, held the door wide for another girl—her roommate. His hand froze in the act of lifting the soda to his lips. She didn’t see him and he took the opportunity to study her.
    Today she was wrapped in a long black cardigan, a knit scarf that hung nearly to the floor, gray flannel slacks and high-heeled black boots. When she wasn’t jogging, she was well-dressed, an anomaly for a supposedly poor student.
    The memory of her near-naked body flashed through his mind and stirred heat