Page 51 of A Thief to Die For

‘No, but you could show me.’

I find my shirt and give her a brief lesson, then take a pile of the already-trimmed planks to one of the houses being rebuilt.

A man named Pedro has already framed the small house but because of the lack of proper tools, it looks like a piecemeal shack of countless small boards. Although, I doubt even the master carpenters from Kingsland could do much more with these supplies.

Pedro is explaining his vision for a window when Rufus pops his head in.

We haven’t had a chance to speak since yesterday. But between his facial scars that match the ones from my latest nightmare, and the way he’s been eyeing me from the shadows, he’s not exactly calming my suspicions.

It solidifies my gut feeling – we’ve met before.

As if he’s inspecting our work, Rufus runs his finger over a jagged plank. ‘I’m sure Shenna’s going to be real happy you’re rebuilding this.’

‘You here to help?’ I ask.

‘Actually,’ Rufus turns to face me, ‘I was hoping I could have a word.’

Pedro looks wary – I see Rufus’s reputation as a snitch precedes him. ‘I’ll go gather more wood,’ he mutters, stepping out.

Rufus smiles. ‘I have an update on getting you a real big ring for your girl. I’m even working on finding you a selection to choose from. But I need to know your budget. I’m assuming big. Also, what’s the timeline? Have you popped the question yet?’

He’s sure got the smarmy grifter part down. ‘Not yet,’ I say, playing along with this fake engagement idea. ‘Gotta convince her father first. But tell me, where do you get your rings from? Are they stolen?’ Do you steal them yourself?

He smirks. ‘I source ethically. Of course, I can’t reveal my contacts.’

Right. I eye him. Business must not be booming because he looks destitute. Dirty clothes over a thin and wiry body, honed from working the mine. His weathered skin is like an old boot, and his greying blondish hair is overgrown. The only thing imposing about him is his height and broad shoulders, but I’m not sure he has the constitution of a cold-blooded killer.

Although anyone can kill under the right circumstances.

‘And you have such good connections because you were a trader?’ I ask.

‘For fifteen years. Too dangerous to keep it up,’ he admits, raising his missing hand.

‘Yeah, when did that happen?’

His eyes cloud over, just like when I asked about the scars on his face. ‘Years ago.’

He’s evading. I roll my shoulders, digging for patience as my blood pounds harder. I can feel it; I’m on to something. ‘You said I reminded you of someone, and honestly, you look pretty familiar, too. In fact, I think … I was there when you got that scar on your face.’ I gauge his reaction.

Caution enters his eyes.

I press in closer. ‘You ever try to rob people? Hurt them?’

His mouth opens, then his wide eyes dart towards the exit. He’s afraid.

It unlocks something in me, and suddenly the faceless man from my nightmares merges with him. I see Rufus push Mum to the ground. It’s him who lunges with the blade.

I slam him into the partially finished wall, my knife at his throat before he even thinks to look down. ‘Why don’t you tell me how you got that scar on your face?’

He pants, his breath sour. ‘Hey, now. Calm down.’

I grind my teeth as a tidal wave of deep-seeded fury – the kind that only comes from justice being denied – crashes over me. I shake him hard, cracking his head against a log.

His Adam’s apple bobs. ‘Okay, okay,’ he says. ‘I recognise you, too.’

I inhale, bracing. ‘Say it,’ I command. ‘How do you know me? Tell me what you did.’

Rufus blinks rapidly, eyes wild. ‘I-I know you’re from Kingsland.’