The Widow

and having tea and popovers.” And kissing Owen Garrison. “I rousted Mattie Young from the old Garrison foundation. He was drinking beer and smoking cigarettes out there in the dark. The Alden boys thought he was Chris’s ghost.”

“You don’t fool me,” her father said quietly. “You’re all over this case. You’ll do what it takes to wring out of it whatever you can.”

“Maybe we’ll finally know-”

“Maybe, but if I had my way, it wouldn’t be now, not this way, with you all alone up there.”

She smiled. “I can take care of myself.”

“See that you do.”

After she hung up, she returned to the back room, saw that fog and gray clouds were moving in from the south and west. She could feel the dampness in the air and pictured herself by Owen’s woodstove, cozy under a warm blanket.

She grabbed a hammer and attacked nails and bits of plaster stuck on the beams of the gutted walls. Two more walls to go, and she’d be done.

Tonight, she decided, was for her and her memories.

CHAPTER 15

She’s harder.

There’s an edge to her that wasn’t there before. She tries to keep others from seeing it, but I see it. I know. She’s small and mean and doesn’t care about anything but her own pain.

She won’t stop.

She won’t ever stop.

Calling her isn’t easy. Hearing her voice. Hoping I didn’t slip up. She would pounce if I did.

Abigail.

She would treat me like a common criminal if she knew what I have done.

I hate the thought of trying to defend myself. Trying to explain what she will never let herself understand.

I don’t kill out of passion. I don’t get caught up in the moment and regret later what I’ve done.

I act quickly. Decisively. I capitalize on what’s going on around me.

I see things.

Everything.

I know how to be patient when I have to be. To act when I must.

Abigail can be my freedom if I don’t allow the thought of failure to undermine my courage.

I cannot write that script for myself.

“Abigail!”

I remember how Chris called his wife’s name.

“Tell her to be happy. Please. Tell her not to grieve too long for me.”

He’d always known he would have a short life. He lived each day to its fullest and never looked back, never indulged in self-pity.

I remember.

And I’ve never told her what her husband’s dying words were.

How could I?

Then she would know I killed him.

“Abigail…Abigail…”

I remember.

And now I must be patient. Calculating. Willing to capitalize on events.

Just as I was seven years ago.

As I had to be.

I remember.

CHAPTER 16

Linc Cooper bounded over the wet rocks below Owen’s house, slipping but not falling, his hair soaked. He was wearing just a sweatshirt, not appropriate, Owen knew, for long periods in the cold rain.

“Hey, Owen.” Linc grinned at him, rain dripping off his nose, his shoulders hunched against the damp chill. “I can’t hike today. I have something else I need to do.”

“Suit yourself.”

“It’s not the rain-I don’t care about that.”

“You’re not dressed for the conditions. When you’re cold and wet, you stay cold and wet.”

Linc gave him an awkward, self-conscious grin. “That can’t be good, right?”

“Not if you want to avoid hypothermia.”

“Yeah, well, I do. Look-I just wanted to let you know.”

“No problem.”

“I mean, everything’s okay. I’m still interested in training with you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Linc. I said I’d hike with you for a few days. If you want to get serious, you can sign up for training.”

His eyes, which seemed bluer in the gloom, sparked. “Think I could do it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Thanks. Okay-I’ll see you later.” But he paused, looking down at the rocks, at the spot where Chris had died. “This place. It’s where…” He didn’t finish his thought. “How can you stand being out here?”

“I don’t think about it just as the place where Chris died. He loved it out here.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” Linc pulled his gaze away from the rocks, but the spark had gone out of his eyes. “I’ll see you later.”

“Anytime, Linc.”

The rain picked up. Linc pulled his hood over his head and shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pockets, jumping from rock to rock, slipping once but correcting himself quickly. He was obviously wobbly from pushing himself on the previous hikes with Owen, but he was gutsy and strong-and he had something to prove.

Owen glanced up the coastline toward Abigail’s house, out of view behind trees and in the fog and rain. She’d needed to be alone last night. The two calls-the timing of them-had gotten to her. She tried to take them in cop mode, but they had to remind her of the twenty-five-year-old bride who’d stood out here and watched her husband’s blood mingle with the tide.

Rain pelted on Owen’s hat, dripping off the brim, turning into a downpour.

He walked back to his house and filled the woodbox, wondering what Abigail would do if he knocked on her door and said he was at a loose end on a rainy day.

Shoot him, probably, he thought, and smiled to himself.

Abigail almost didn’t answer her cell phone when she saw Bob O’Reilly’s number on the readout. She could pretend she was back at her house, where there was no cell service, instead of standing in front of the Abbe Museum in downtown Bar Harbor, crowded with scores of rained-out tourists.

“Hey, Bob,” she said.