One might be surprised how many murderers ply their trade in Scotland. One would be shocked, however, to discover just how many don’t do their own shopping.

Whether you were the heiress to a Greek shipping magnate or the American corporate lawyer expatriated abroad, the Highlands offered ample space to dump bodies where they would sooner rot than be found. There were a few exceptions, of course. A deer stalker might stumble upon a corpse left on the heather moors. A coastal crofter might uncover a pale face in the sand at low tide. But even if the police identified the victim, even if the victim was buried with everything from the murder weapon to the clothes the killer killed in, not even the most diligent detective would ever find the perpetrator. Hope was too good at her job.

Midnight in Aberdeen, where the River Dee empties into the North Sea. Across the harbor, the city’s gold lights winked along its endless beach, home to endless people sleeping in endless granite flats. All was dark south of the river, where a crumbling old fort stood sentinel over the bay and—more importantly—where few of those people wandered past twelve on a winter weeknight.

In the passenger seat of the pickup truck, Hope rubbed the invoice between gloved fingers, imagining the fuzzy scratch of overhandled paper. The requested cargo had been odd. Even for him. A consignment that had demanded bribing, smuggling, and a threat to a sketchy curator at the Swedish Museum of Natural History who had the misfortune of being on her radar. She was about to unfold the note—not to review the order, but to admire the handwriting—when the tailgate slammed shut and the driver’s door popped open. Mr. Charles slid behind the wheel. He kept the door open as if he were seated beside an untrained dog and might need a quick exit. The dashboard dinged away at an otherwise silent night.

“We’re square now, eh, Magpie?” After a week’s worth of Scandinavian sing-song, his brash Aberdonian was near unintelligible. “Squared up?”

“That depends on your ability to keep your mouth shut, Charlie,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Wouldn’t wanna owe me another favor. Unless, of course…” She swung an elbow atop the center console and leaned in close, slapping on a sardonic smile. “Are you… No, you wouldn’t be a masochist, now, would you?”

Mr. Charles stiffened. Hands on knees, eyes straight ahead, jaw double-knotted.

“What a scandal that would be, huh, bud?”

His breath came in clipped clouds; hers wafted his face. Made his cheek twitch. She closed her eyes, savoring Charlie’s fear as if it were tiramisu… But, as it happened, Hope rather disliked tiramisu. Coffee belonged in cups. Not dessert.

She dropped the act, reclaiming her classic deadpan. Once she’d checked to make sure her gut hook knife was tucked safe in her combat boot, she slipped the invoice in the pocket of her peacoat and slid out of the truck. “Go home to Marcie and the girls.”

Hope shut the door, smacked it twice, and Mr. Charles peeled down Greyhope Road, leaving naught in his wake but a pallet stacked with crates and the silhouette of a man, leaning in the ancient archway of Torry Battery. The figure descended the small hill to the dirt parking lot. There was no swish of grass, no crunch of gravel. An Irish lilt, smooth and deep, crooned to her from the dark.

“You took your sweet time.”