Chapter 3 The Mystery of the Scar

# Chapter 3: The Mystery of the Scar

Sleep eluded me that night, my mind too occupied with the implications of what I'd seen—what I'd done. The wedding video played on loop in my head: the way Cain looked at me, the way I smiled back at him. Genuine happiness, not the performance of someone undercover.

Morning found me at my bathroom mirror, examining the scar on my back for the thousandth time. The doctors had called it a bullet wound, but offered no explanation for why someone would shoot an undercover officer in the back. I'd always assumed it happened during whatever operation went wrong.

Now I wondered: Had I taken that bullet for Cain?

My fingers drifted to my left hand, tracing the thin circular scar on my ring finger. For years, I'd dismissed it as an old injury, meaningless among the constellation of scars that mapped my body. Now it seemed to burn under my touch—a phantom pain where a wedding ring once sat.

The precinct was quiet when I arrived, most officers still at the morning briefing. I slipped into the records room, using my clearance to access the database. If Cain and I had truly been married, there would be documentation somewhere.

"Officer MacAllister? Thought you were on desk duty."

I jumped, quickly closing the screen. Officer Jenkins stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

"Just catching up on some paperwork," I lied smoothly. "Coleman's orders."

He nodded, unconvinced. "They're looking for you upstairs. Something about last night's warehouse shooting."

My stomach tightened. "Thanks. I'll head up now."

I waited until he left before quickly printing what I'd found—a marriage license issued five years ago, listing Isla MacAllister and Cain Lockhart as spouses. The document looked authentic, but I needed more than paper to believe my life was a fabrication.

Detective Murray was waiting by my desk when I emerged from the records room.

"There you are," he said, concern evident in his voice. "Eight bodies at Leith Docks last night. Cerberus Security is claiming it was a break-in attempt on their property."

"Cerberus... that's Lockhart's company?" I kept my expression neutral, though my pulse quickened.

"Yeah. Funny coincidence, right? First his yacht, now his warehouse." Murray studied me closely. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"

"Why would I?"

He sighed, lowering his voice. "Look, Isla, I'm your partner. If something's going on—if you're in some kind of trouble—you can tell me."

For a moment, I considered confessing everything. The photos, the wedding video, the guns. But what would I say? That I might be married to a man who may or may not be a criminal? That my entire identity might be built on departmental lies?

"I appreciate the concern," I said finally, "but I'm fine. Just tired from the suspension stress."

Murray didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Well, if you change your mind about talking, I'm here."

"Thanks." I gathered my jacket. "I need some air. Cover for me with Coleman?"

"One hour," he warned. "Then I start worrying."

I slipped out of the precinct, my mind racing. The marriage certificate confirmed part of Cain's story, but I needed more. If we had been married, there would have been rings—custom rings, according to him.

Without conscious decision, I found myself heading toward the most exclusive jeweler in Edinburgh—the kind of place that catered to people with Cain's obvious wealth. A bell chimed softly as I entered the shop, the air heavy with the scent of polish and old money.

A well-dressed older man approached. "May I help you, madam?"

I showed my badge. "Officer MacAllister. I'm investigating a case and need to verify some information about a custom order from approximately five years ago."

His expression remained professionally neutral. "We value our clients' privacy, Officer."

"This is a potential homicide investigation," I lied, watching his demeanor shift immediately.

"I see. What information do you require?"

I described the specifications for matching wedding bands, giving the date range from the marriage certificate.

"One moment." He disappeared into a back room, returning minutes later with a leather-bound book. "We do keep records of custom commissions. Let me see..."

He flipped through pages, then stopped, his finger tracing a line of elegant script. "Ah, yes. A special order for Mr. Lockhart. Matching platinum bands with an unusual request—interior engravings in ancient Norse."

My heart stuttered. "What did the engravings say?"

"'Til Valhalla,'" he read. "Quite romantic, in a warrior-like fashion."

Until Valhalla—until death reunites us in the afterlife of fallen warriors. The sentiment made my scar tingle.

"Was there anything unusual about the order?"

The jeweler hesitated. "Well, Mr. Lockhart was most insistent about the rings being ready by a specific date. Paid triple our rush fee. And the lady—" He stopped abruptly.

"The lady?" I prompted.

"She seemed... uncomfortable during the sizing. Almost reluctant." He looked up, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Actually, now that I see you properly... you were the lady."

I swallowed hard. "Are you certain?"

"Quite certain. I never forget a client." His brow furrowed. "Though you wore your hair differently then. Longer."

Another piece of the puzzle, slotting into place. "What happened to those rings?"

"I couldn't say. Though Mr. Lockhart was in about six months ago, inquiring about recreating the lady's ring. Said it had been lost."

I thanked him and left, my mind whirling. Reluctant during sizing. Had I been undercover, playing the role of loving fiancée? Or had there been another reason for my discomfort?

The scar on my finger seemed to pulse with each heartbeat as I walked, no destination in mind. I found myself in a small park, sitting on a bench overlooking a pond. Children fed ducks nearby, their laughter a strange counterpoint to my darkening thoughts.

My phone buzzed—not my department phone, but the one Cain had given me.

*Have you remembered yet?*

I stared at the message, anger rising. Who was he to play games with my fractured memory?

*I remember enough,* I typed back. *The jeweler recognized me. Said I seemed reluctant about the rings.*

Three dots appeared as he typed, disappeared, then reappeared.

*You were undercover. Had to maintain appearances.*

A convenient explanation. Too convenient.

*Meet me,* I demanded. *No more games. No more cryptic clues.*

He sent an address—a penthouse in the most expensive part of the city—and a time: two hours from now.

I had time to return to the precinct, check in with Murray, maintain the pretense of normalcy. Instead, I found myself at a small café, nursing a coffee and watching people pass by. How many of them carried secrets? How many lived lives built on lies?

At the appointed time, I arrived at the sleek high-rise, giving my name to a discreet security guard who nodded as if he'd been expecting me.

"Mr. Lockhart is waiting in the penthouse, ma'am. Private elevator requires this key." He handed me a small, elegant card. "He said you'd know the code."

I took the card, mind racing. What code would past-Isla have used? Our wedding date? Too obvious. I tried my badge number—access denied. Then, on instinct, I entered 825—the Norse runic equivalent of "TLV," Til Valhalla.

The elevator doors opened silently.

The penthouse was a study in minimalist luxury—all clean lines and muted colors, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Edinburgh. No photographs adorned the walls, no personal touches betrayed the occupant's character. It felt like a hotel suite—expensive but impersonal.

Cain stood at a bar cart, pouring amber liquid into crystal tumblers. He'd exchanged his usual formal attire for dark jeans and a simple gray sweater that did nothing to diminish his commanding presence.

"You figured out the code," he remarked without turning. "Some things remain in the subconscious, even when the conscious mind forgets."

"Or it was a logical guess," I countered, remaining near the elevator. "Norse mythology seems to be your obsession."

Now he turned, offering a glass. "Our obsession. You were the one who introduced me to the sagas."

I didn't move to take the drink. "I want answers, not alcohol."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive." He set my glass on the coffee table and gestured to the sofa. "Please. I promised answers, and you'll have them."

Warily, I perched on the edge of the sofa, keeping distance between us. "Start with the rings. The jeweler said I seemed uncomfortable during the sizing."

Cain sat opposite me, his expression unreadable. "You were deep undercover in the Donovan organization. Our relationship complicated things. Marriage more so."

"Yet we did it anyway."

"We were reckless." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Defiant, perhaps. Determined not to let your assignment dictate our lives."

"So I was what—a cop pretending to be a criminal, secretly married to..." I gestured at him, "whatever you are?"

"I'm a security consultant." His answer came too smoothly. "My company provides specialized services to clients who require discretion."

"Like the Donovans?"

"Among others." He sipped his drink. "Your department utilized my expertise occasionally. That's how we met."

It sounded plausible, yet something felt off. "And these specialized services—do they typically involve arsenals hidden in shipping containers?"

"Our world is dangerous, Isla. You knew that better than most." He leaned forward. "The night you disappeared—the night everyone thought you died—we were celebrating our six-month anniversary. You'd received word that the Donovan case was nearly closed. One last piece of evidence needed."

I frowned, trying to align this narrative with the official story of my "accident."

"What happened?"

"They found us. Someone leaked your true identity." His knuckles whitened around his glass. "There was a firefight. You were shot protecting me."

My hand instinctively moved to my back, where the bullet scar marked my skin.

"And then?"

"You went over the cliff into the water. I tried to follow, but they held me back. Searched for months." His voice grew hoarse. "They found pieces of your clothing, blood in the water. Declared you dead."

The clinical detachment in his voice couldn't hide the pain beneath. Either he was an exceptional actor, or he had truly mourned me.

"If what you're saying is true," I said carefully, "then why, when I was found alive, didn't you come forward? Why maintain the fiction that I was just a patrol officer?"

"By the time you were found, your department had already buried the truth. The operation was deemed a failure, all records sealed. And you..." He set his glass down. "You didn't remember me. The doctors advised against forcing memories—said it could cause psychological damage."

"So you what? Decided to stalk me instead? Build a shrine of photos in your yacht?"

"I watched over you," he corrected, a dangerous edge entering his voice. "Protected you while you rebuilt your life. Waited for you to remember on your own."

"For five years?" I scoffed. "No one is that patient."

"You'd be surprised what love makes possible." He stood suddenly, moving to a hidden panel in the wall. "But you're right to be skeptical. Words are cheap."

The panel slid open to reveal a small safe. He entered a code, removed something, then turned back to me. In his palm sat a platinum ring, simple but elegant.

"Your wedding band," he said quietly. "I recovered it from the beach where they found your torn clothing."

I stared at the ring, feeling an inexplicable pull toward it. "May I?"

He placed it in my palm. The metal was cool, the weight familiar. I turned it over, finding the inscription inside—"Til Valhalla" in runic characters.

"Why didn't you give this to me before? When I was found?"

"And tell you what? That the life they constructed for you was a lie? That the woman you were trying to become was a shadow of who you'd been?" He shook his head. "You weren't ready."

"And I am now?" I challenged, closing my fist around the ring.

"You came to me, Isla. You're asking questions. Your body remembered how to fight at the warehouse. You're starting to feel the inconsistencies in the story they fed you."

I opened my hand, staring at the ring. The scar on my finger seemed to throb beneath it, urging me to try it on, to see if it fit. To see if it felt right.

As if reading my thoughts, Cain moved to a sideboard and returned with a crystal decanter. "Perhaps this will help jog your memory."

He poured a measure of champagne, then took the ring from my palm. Before I could protest, he dropped it into the bubbling liquid.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a point." He held the glass out to me. "Drink, and I'll tell you everything. Every detail of our life together. Every lie they told you."

I stared at the ring gleaming at the bottom of the champagne flute. "You want me to swallow my wedding ring?"

"I want you to reclaim what was taken from you." His eyes bore into mine with frightening intensity. "The ring will remain in the glass. But the symbolism matters."

"This is insane."

"Is it?" He moved closer, the glass still extended. "Five years ago, you wore this ring willingly. You stood on a cliff and promised yourself to me. Then you died in those waters—at least, the woman you were did."

I shook my head, standing to create distance between us. "I'm not drinking that."

"Because you're afraid," he challenged. "Afraid it might be true. Afraid you gave your heart to someone they've taught you to distrust."

"No," I said, my voice stronger than I felt. "Because I don't trust you. Because this entire scenario feels like manipulation."

Something darkened in his expression. "You want to know who you are? What really happened? I'm offering you that truth."

"On your terms," I countered. "With your narrative."

In a sudden movement, he upended the champagne flute into a decorative bowl on the coffee table. The ring clinked against the ceramic, the liquid splashing over the sides.

"You want to know if I'm your husband?" he asked, voice dangerously soft. "Ask me about the scar on your left hip. The one shaped like a crescent moon. Ask me how you got the burn mark on your right shoulder blade. Ask me why you sometimes cry in your sleep in a language you don't speak when awake."

Each revelation hit like a physical blow. The hip scar—from a childhood fall I couldn't remember. The burn mark—undocumented in my medical file. The sleep-talking—something my department-appointed therapist had mentioned in passing.

"How do you know these things?" I whispered.

"Because I've known you, Isla. In every way a man can know a woman." He retrieved the ring from the bowl, wiping it dry on his sleeve. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted a thin gold chain from around his neck. His own ring hung from it, identical to mine.

"You are my wife," he said simply. "Whether you remember or not."

"If that's true," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice, "then why did I remove my ring? Why is there a scar where it should have been?"

Pain flashed across his features—raw, unguarded. "Because the night before you disappeared, we fought. About your assignment. About the risks you were taking." He swallowed hard. "You threw the ring at me. Said you couldn't be both a wife and an officer. That I was asking you to choose."

"And what did you say?"

"I said I would always choose you. Even if you couldn't choose me."

The sincerity in his voice shook me. This wasn't the calculated manipulation I'd expected. This was grief, still fresh after five years.

"The ring mark," I said slowly. "It's not from normal wear. It's a scar, like something... burned me."

Cain's expression changed, a flicker of something—guilt?—crossing his features. "After you were found, you tried to remove all traces of your past life. Including the ring. You... weren't gentle about it."

A fragment of memory surfaced—my hands shaking, pain searing through my finger as I twisted metal.

"I need to go," I said suddenly, overwhelmed. "I need to think."

He nodded, making no move to stop me. "Keep the phone I gave you. And Isla?" His voice softened. "The ring is yours, whether you wear it or not."

I left the penthouse with the ring clutched in my palm, my mind a battlefield of conflicting thoughts. If Cain was telling the truth, my entire life for the past five years had been built on institutional lies. If he was lying... then why did so much of what he said resonate on a level deeper than conscious thought?

Back in my apartment, I examined the ring more closely. Inside, beneath the runic inscription, was a tiny engraving I hadn't noticed before—a date. Our wedding date, if Cain was to be believed.

I opened my laptop and began searching news archives from that period. If there had been a shootout involving an undercover officer, there should be some record, even if the details were classified.

Hours later, I found it—a small article about a "disturbance" at a coastal property, with mentions of gunfire and one suspected casualty. The location matched the cliffside from the wedding video.

My phone—my real phone—buzzed with a text from Murray.

*Where are you? Coleman's asking questions.*

I ignored it, too deep in my research. Another article mentioned Cain Lockhart making a sizable donation to the coastal search and rescue team the following month. A third reported his company's expansion into private security contracts for government agencies.

Everything aligned with his story, yet provided no definitive proof. I could still be seeing connections where none existed.

As dawn broke, I made a decision. I slipped the ring onto my left hand, watching as it settled perfectly over the scar tissue.

"Who were you, Isla?" I whispered to my reflection in the window. "And who am I now?"

The ring gleamed in the morning light, both familiar and foreign—like the woman I saw in the mirror.