“Lou Beeler’s on his way.” She made an effort to smile at the two boys. “Your dad, too.”
Owen sensed her restlessness. “Where are the pictures that were left for you?”
“On my kitchen counter.” Her eyes, dark and intense, leveled on him. “There’s something I need to do. Tell Lou and Doyle I’ll be right back.”
“You’re going to confront Mattie.”
“Just because the pictures are disturbing doesn’t make it against the law to leave them on our doorsteps.”
“You know damn well the police will investigate.”
But she ignored him, saying goodbye to the boys before she slipped back out to the deck, barely making a sound as she headed back across the rocks.
Owen swore under his breath. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t leave Sean and Ian, and he sure as hell couldn’t take them with him and go after Abigail.
“Owen?” Ian slipped a cool hand into his. “I’m scared.”
He wanted to tell the boys there was nothing to be scared of, but someone had just left him a picture of his drowned sister and a picture of a terrified, grief-stricken widow. How could he say, with any degree of confidence, there was no reason to be afraid?
“Hey, guys,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get a fire going.”
Abigail parked in front of Mattie’s house, walked up to his front door and rang the doorbell, just the way she was supposed to. It was after four. He would have knocked off work by now. She noticed bent vertical blinds hanging in a picture window of the small, one-story bungalow. He hadn’t planted flowers in his own yard.
When the door didn’t open, she pounded on it, its white paint chipped and yellowed. “Mattie, it’s Abigail. Abigail Browning. I’d like to talk to you.”
She waited two beats. Still no answer. She tried the knob.
The door was unlocked.
She called him again as she pushed open the door. Before entering, she heard the clatter of a bicycle behind her on the walk and turned, sighing at Mattie. “There you are. Don’t you lock your doors?”
“What for? I don’t have anything worth stealing.” He waved a hand at her, showing no indication of surprise or irritation at her visit. “Go ahead. Go inside if you want.”
“Thank you, I will.”
She stepped into a simply furnished living room, surprisingly neat and clean given Mattie’s general appearance. He followed her in and flopped down onto the couch. “Okay. What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to you about your photography.”
“My photography? Why?”
“I was at a gallery in Bar Harbor today. The owner, a man named Walt-”
“Oh, yeah.” Mattie grinned, putting his feet up on a coffee table. “Good old Walt. He’s full of shit, isn’t he? Pompous ass.”
“He thinks you’re very talented.”
“See what I mean?”
“Where do you keep the negatives of the pictures you’ve taken?”
“I burned them.”
Abigail wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. “When?”
“One night when I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself. Well.” He gave a fake laugh, no hint of self- deprecation. “I guess that describes a lot of nights. It was sometime after Chris was killed. I was living in Bar Harbor-it feels like civilization compared to living out here.”
“Did you destroy all your negatives?”
He hesitated. “I don’t remember.”
“You remember, Mattie. You’re a photographer. Those negatives are your life’s work.”
“I don’t know why I let you in here.”
“You didn’t burn the negatives of the pictures you took the day Dorothy Garrison died,” Abigail said.
He shot to his feet, bolting for the front door, but she intercepted him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back.
He squealed. “Hey!”
“Just calm down.” She eased off. “Running isn’t going to solve anything.”
“You have no right-”
She released him and stepped back. “I want to know about the pictures, Mattie.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Abigail didn’t answer him. She walked into the adjoining dining room, where a dusty faux-crystal chandelier hung above a scratched and nicked dark-stained pine table. “You have a decent setup here.” She ran her fingers over the table. “Keep your day job and work on your photography on your off-hours. That’s your plan, isn’t it?”
He rubbed his arm where she’d tackled him. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the plan.”
“Why sneak off to the old Garrison foundation to drink in the dark with the mosquitoes?”
He shrugged. “Why drink?”
“Good point.”
“You used to be nicer. When you and Chris were together.”
“Maybe so.”
She started toward the kitchen, off the dining room, but noticed a fat envelope tucked under a clear glass vase on the sideboard, which matched the table. She walked over to it and lifted the vase with one hand and picked up the envelope with the other hand.
“Hey-that’s mine. You need a warrant to search my place-”
“I’m not here as a police officer. I’m here as a friend.” She could see the stack of green bills inside the envelope and fanned them with her thumb. Most were fifty-and hundred-dollar bills. “How much is in here? A thousand?”
“It’s not against the law to have cash in my own house.”
“I thought you said there was nothing here worth stealing. Do the Coopers pay you in cash?”
He snapped his mouth shut. “Get out.” He pointed toward the front door. “Now go, before I call Doyle.”
Abigail made a show of checking her watch. “By my calculations, he should be here soon.”
“What?”
“Doyle and Lieutenant Beeler. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come together.” She replaced the envelope under the vase. “Feel free to tell them we’ve talked.”
Mattie swore at her. He got himself onto a roll and kept swearing, calling her a long, not particularly inventive string of names, but Abigail ignored him as she walked past him to the front door. She held it open with one hand and looked back at him. Something about her expression worked, because he shut up.
She said, “Tell ChiefAlden and Lieutenant Beeler everything you know, Mattie. Whatever you’re hiding, whatever angle you’re playing, isn’t worth the risks you’re taking.”
He held up both his hands, splaying his fingers. “Look at these. Look at the dirt and the dried blood. The calluses. You think I’m playing an angle? You’re fucking crazy. I get up in the morning and I ride my bike to rich people’s houses, and I work my ass off. I’m doing the best I can to pull my life together.”
“Lie to yourself all you want. And to me, if you have to. Just don’t lie to the police.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
On that lofty note, Abigail left, getting to her car and back onto the main road without running into any of her colleagues in law enforcement.
But they were waiting for her at her little house on the Maine coast. Lou Beeler, Doyle Alden and Special Agents Capozza and Steele.
“Lucky me,” she said aloud.
She pulled over into the grass and parked.
No way did she want to block the driveway and prevent any of the cop cars from leaving.
