The Widow

Chris was an FBI agent. He knew the island better than most.

For too long, no one had considered he might be in trouble.

His dark-eyed wife, a bump on her head, her legs unsteady, had been drawn to the spot of her husband’s murder as if by instinct, as if Chris, settled now in death, had called her there to end her uncertainty.

“I’m going to find out who killed my husband.”

Owen had never doubted Abigail’s words. Even as she’d dug her fingers into his arms, as he’d held her back from going to her husband, further contaminating the crime scene, he’d believed her determination and conviction were for real.

She wouldn’t stop. Not Abigail March Browning.

Now, she was back on the island.

He wasn’t fooled by her soot-smeared face and slippery shoes or her dunk in the ocean.

Abigail was a tight-jawed, hard-assed detective.

She wasn’t in Maine to fix up her house and dump ashes. She was there for the same reason she was always there-for the same reason she hadn’t sold her house in the past seven years and put Mt. Desert Island behind her altogether.

To find Chris’s killer.

Owen turned away from the water and walked up to the path that would take him back to his house. In the shifting fog, spruce branches and the old foundation above created eerie, unnatural shapes.

No wonder the Alden boys thought they’d seen a ghost out here.

Maine was full of ghosts. Owen just had no intention of letting them run him off.

CHAPTER 5

I can see his eyes as I pull the trigger.

I thought he’d be too far away, but I can see them. Wide open. Defiant.

Knowing.

He says his wife’s name, but only I am close enough to hear him above the waves and wind.

“Abigail.”

He calls her name because he loves her. Not because he believes she’s the one who has just shot him.

He knows it’s me.

That bothers me sometimes, still.

Other times, I’m glad.

Yes, it was me, you arrogant bastard.

As I pull the trigger a second time, I think only that finally I am free, finally I am safe, finally I have done what I needed to do.

I don’t think that his wife will hound me forever.

I don’t think by pulling the trigger I have sentenced myself to another kind of prison and torture.

Seven years.

Abigail will never quit. I could hear it in her voice the other night, on the phone. While she was having dinner alone on her wedding anniversary. Those solitary annual dinners are her tradition.

I picked that night to call on purpose.

I’m not a monster. I don’t kill indiscriminately.

I kill to solve problems that cannot be solved another way.

I kill because I’m left no other option.

I kill without pleasure.

But I also kill without remorse.

Abigail.

He loved her.

She loved him.

What did Chris know of love?

What does Abigail know?

She will know of love in the end.

That I promise.

CHAPTER 6

“Listen up, Linc. I’m giving you this one chance. That’s it.”

Linc Cooper looked through the tall spruces at the Atlantic Ocean below him, the sun chasing away the last of the fog on the bright, cool morning. He was on a vertical zigzag of stone steps that Edgar Garrison had carved into the granite hillside behind his summer house almost a hundred years ago. They used to lead to an old-fashioned teahouse. Now the steps led to the house the Garrisons had built after fire had destroyed their original “cottage” down on the waterfront.

The new house, with its blue-gray clapboards and black shutters, was supposedly smaller and more restrained, but Linc, who’d never even seen pictures of the Garrison’s original Maine home, had never liked it.

He had always loved playing on the steps as a little kid, if only because no one noticed him out there. His uncle Ellis considered the house his own, but, in reality, the deed belonged to Linc’s father, Jason Cooper.

Everything, Linc thought, was in his father’s name. His father was clever, responsible and ruthless. His younger half brother, Ellis, was passive by nature and gentle in temperament, not unambitious but more measured in his wants and needs.

“I don’t give second chances. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I do.”

Chris’s voice. When he had jumped out of the dark and clamped a hand on Linc’s shoulder, Linc had wet his pants. Chris hadn’t relented.

Thirteen years old, and Linc had never felt such shame as when he looked into his idol’s eyes and saw that he knew everything.

“You have nothing to prove to anyone, Linc. Not to me. Not to your father or to your sister.”

He’d wanted to be like Chris Browning. It didn’t matter that Chris was so much older. Linc wanted to be self- reliant, capable. Chris had no family money to fall back on. His parents had died when he was a baby. He’d made his own way in the world.

“What kind of man do you want to be?”

Linc sat on a stone bench on a narrow landing on the steep steps. How many times had he thought about finding Abigail Browning and telling her everything he knew about the night before she was attacked, before her husband was killed?

Telling her what he’d done seven years ago as a stupid kid.

He heard footsteps above him on the steps and looked up just as Mattie Young came into view. Chris’s friend, the Coopers’ yardman, the local drunk. A creep.

Mattie jumped the last two steps onto the landing. “Hey, Linc, my boy.” He grinned, smug, sarcastic. “Fancy meeting you here.”

There wasn’t any “fancy” to it, and Mattie knew it-he’d provided the when, where, the why. And the