cry or whispered threat, he’d shove them both upstairs and sit and watch television by himself.
Someone pounded on the door-not a normal knock, and it was past nine o’clock. Doyle got out of his chair, pointing at the boys. “Stay put. Understood?”
He flipped on the outside light and peeked out the window, seeing Mattie Young shifting from one foot to the other on the front stoop. Doyle felt a prick of irritation. He’d resisted tracking down Mattie today and asking him about the beer and cigarettes in the old Garrison foundation-why he’d let Sean and Ian think he was a ghost. He’d had to calm down first. And it wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait a day, never mind how Abigail Browning would have handled it.
“It’s Mattie,” Doyle called to the boys. “I’ll be just a minute.”
“Okay, Dad,” Sean said, as if he were the boss. “Take your time.”
Doyle pulled open the door and stepped outside, Mattie automatically backing up, hunching his shoulders in that guilty way he had. He looked gaunt and cold, his hair hanging down his back in a greasy ponytail, his skin pocked with mosquito bites.
“What’s up, Mattie?” Doyle asked him.
“This isn’t an official visit. I mean-I’m not here on police business. You don’t have to log me in somewhere.”
“I guess that depends on what you want.”
Mattie shivered, not meeting Doyle’s eye. “I want you to tell Abigail Browning to stay away from me.”
“Why? What’d she do to you?”
“Nothing-not yet.”
“Then on what grounds?”
“You don’t need grounds. I told you, I’m not here because you’re a cop. I’m here because you’re my friend. She’ll listen to you.”
“When did you last see her?”
Mattie licked his lips and looked behind him, as if he expected to find Abigail standing there. “Just now.”
“Damn it, Mattie, are you going to make me pry it out of you? Just tell me what happened.”
“She scared the hell out of me.” Mattie turned back to Doyle, the light hitting the burst blood vessels in his face. “I was minding my own business-”
“Where?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Doyle rocked back on his heels. “She caught you drinking out at the old Garrison foundation.”
Mattie’s mouth dropped open. “She told you?”
“No, Mattie, she didn’t tell me.”
“But you-” He stopped himself, gave a little laugh. “Did the boys see me out there? I tried not to let them see me. I figured-you know. I didn’t want them getting the wrong idea.”
“What wrong idea would that be, Mattie? That you were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes by yourself in the dark?”
“Just one beer. Honest.”
“It’s never one beer with you, Mattie. You’re a drunk. You know damn well what alcohol does to you-”
“Yeah. I know. That’s why I stay away from it.”
“Drinking beer isn’t staying away from it.” Doyle realized he wasn’t even angry. He was just sick of Mattie and his problems. “You know the deal. Alcoholism is a disease. It’s not here today and gone tomorrow. It’s here to stay. Stop running from it. Face it.”
“I have faced it. I can drink one beer. Not everyone has to go cold turkey. One beer, and that’s it.”
“No, Mattie, you can’t drink one beer and that’s it.”
He rubbed his nose with his fingers and stared down at his feet, not out of shame, Doyle knew, but irritation. Mattie liked to think he knew better.
He lifted his head. “I wasn’t on Abigail’s property.”
“No, you were on Garrison property. Did Owen see you?”
“I shouldn’t have bothered coming here. I thought you were my friend.”
“You don’t treat your friends well, Mattie. You’re a chronic liar and a disappointment to everyone who’s ever cared about you. What do you expect me to do? As a friend?”
“Nothing. Not one damn thing. Just forget I even came here.”
“If Abigail crossed the line-”
“What would you do?”
“I’d do my job.”
Mattie snorted. “Yeah. Right. The detective daughter of the FBI director. Chris’s widow. You wouldn’t do anything if she knocked me on the head and I was in the E.R. for stitches.”
“Go home. Sleep off your self-absorbed rage. Stay off Owen Garrison’s property and don’t provoke Abigail.” Doyle regarded Mattie with a resignation he’d come to terms with a long time ago, a disappointment so deep, he couldn’t even feel it anymore. “That’s my advice.”
Mattie stepped forward abruptly, grabbing Doyle’s upper arm. “Something’s going on with Abigail.” He dug his fingers into Doyle’s arm, then let go, flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. “I’m attuned to people. I see everything. I see things other people don’t. It’s why I keep drinking.”
“You keep drinking because you’re an alcoholic and you won’t take responsibility for your own recovery.”
“I’m not being paranoid. Abigail wants to find Chris’s killer. I don’t even think she cares if she gets the right person anymore. She just wants it over. The wondering, the hunting.”
“Mattie, come on. You’re not making any sense.” Doyle felt the familiar sense of desperation that being around Mattie, his wasted life, often brought out in him. “Why would she push for answers if she doesn’t care if she gets the right answers?”
A veil of denial fell over him. Doyle had seen Mattie go into this mode before, shutting down, pretending he didn’t care what happened to him-to anyone. “Whatever. I just wanted you to know the score. You don’t want to tell her to stay away from me, fine. Your call. Say hi to the boys for me, okay? They should ride their bikes over to my place some afternoon.”
“Mattie-”
He’d already started down the steps and waved a hand to Doyle without looking back. “See you around, Chief. I need to be up early to help Ellis. Real estate agents are going to come check out the place soon. Everything’s got to be perfect.”
“Yeah,” Doyle said. “That’s Ellis. Hey, Mattie-”
But he was done. He walked out to the road and picked up his bicycle, walking it a few steps before climbing on. Doyle didn’t stop him. Years ago, he’d watched Mattie Young throw away his potential as a photographer and slip deeper and deeper into self-destruction, bitterness and entitlement. No one could help him if he didn’t want to help himself-if he didn’t even admit to the damn problem.
In the months before Chris’s death, they’d all seen a glimmer of hope. Mattie was cleaned up, working hard, doing his photography. Happy. Making plans for the future. Taking responsibility for his own recovery and making the needed changes in his life.
He’d started to slip before Chris’s wedding. And two days after Owen had found Chris’s body-before their friend was even laid to rest-Mattie turned up on Doyle’s doorstep, drunk.
He’d had fits and starts of sobriety in the seven years since, but he’d always find a reason to go back into the bottle. Now, it seemed to be because he’d convinced himself he could manage one beer.
Except, from the description Owen had given, Doyle knew damn well Mattie wasn’t stopping his solitary parties after just one beer.
He shut the door and went back inside, wishing Katie was there to talk to. She’d known Mattie as long as he had, but she had more distance than Doyle did.
He was just wrung out.
“What did Mattie want?” Sean asked.
“Not much. You boys ready for bed?”
For a change, they didn’t argue with him or pick a fight with each other. Doyle followed them upstairs. If he had his way, Katie would be home this summer, and Abigail Browning would be investigating homicides in Boston, not
