“That’s my guess, anyway.”
The state detective ignored her completely. “What are you going to do now?”
“Owen and I thought we’d walk up to Ellis’s.” She smiled with feigned innocence. “I have this thing for delphinium.”
“Mattie.”
Mattie stirred amid the thick evergreens that grew along the cliffs where Doe Garrison drowned, listening in case he’d conjured up the voice whispering his name.
“Mattie Young.”
A ghost?
Chris’s ghost?
He brushed pine needles off him and stood up under the low branches of the prickly balsam firs and spruces. He’d made his way down there before dawn, after a rough night up on the ledge. A state cruiser had purred along the private road just after he crossed it and disappeared into the forest. It wasn’t great timing on his part. It was luck. Pure damn luck.
He heard the rustle of dead leaves and underbrush from his own movements, and he smelled the tang of salt in the air from the ocean just below him.
It wasn’t Chris.
“I know you’re here, Mattie.”
That voice.
It wasn’t Abigail, or Owen. Doyle. The people he’d betrayed but who wouldn’t hurt him.
It wasn’t any of them.
A cold serenity came over him. He knew what was happening now. He shut his eyes a split second and pictured himself in the ice and snow of Acadia on a soundless, frigid winter afternoon. His winter photography was some of his finest. He liked the island best on the coldest, clearest, sharpest winter days.
He’d trapped himself along the edge of thirty-foot rock cliffs.
There was nowhere to run. Behind him was the ocean. Ahead of him, a killer.
“Mattie.”
He recognized the voice but refused to look to see if he was right.
He’d had his chances, and now they were done. He had nothing more to do in this life.
He would need a miracle to live out the hour.
“Mattie, what are you doing?”
CHAPTER 30
Abigail stopped at her house to shower, change clothes and clear her head. Owen had agreed to meet her on the steps up to Ellis’s. She needed a few minutes alone-a few minutes to think in the quiet rooms where the man she’d loved and married and lost had lived for most of his short life.
If only the walls could speak, she thought, heading downstairs to the entry, her hair still damp from her shower. She’d pulled on jeans, her good running shoes, a camp shirt and her gun, a.40 caliber Glock. The niceties of jurisdictions and Maine ’s gun laws notwithstanding, she doubted Lou Beeler would object.
She spotted Special Agents Ray Capozza and Mary Steele out on her doorstep and yanked open her front door. “What can I do for you?”
“We thought we’d stop by and see how you’re doing,” Capozza said.
“I’m fine. Just washed my hair. I didn’t blow-dry it-”
Steele rolled her eyes. “It’s a courtesy call, Detective Browning. We wanted to let you know that Grace Cooper has withdrawn her name for the State Department job. No reason stated.”
Capozza stared straight at Abigail, his gaze unwavering, hard-ass. She decided she liked him. “Lying to the police in a murder investigation could have something to do with it,” he said. “She told your husband at Ellis Cooper’s party-the day Agent Browning died-that her brother was down here on the water. She believed that was the case. If she’d told the investigators that fact seven years ago-” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
Abigail opened the door wider. “I’m off to meet Owen Garrison in a minute, but would you two care to come inside?”
Steele shook her head. “We have some loose ends we need to tie up.”
“Let us know if we can be of any assistance,” Capozza said. Abigail believed his courtesy had nothing to do with who her father was. The guy just wanted to help. He winked at her. “See you around, Detective.”
“Abigail,” she said.
“Yeah.”
She shut the door after the two federal agents left and headed for the back room, making sure the porch door was locked this time. She stood in the middle of the gutted room and heard the clatter of the tools, as if that summer afternoon so long ago were happening now. She remembered the hit on her head. The split second fear that she was going to die.
And, later, seeing Chris. That awful expression. She remembered the countless times she’d tried to describe it in her journals. He knew who’d smacked her on the head.
Mattie.
Probably, she thought. Almost certainly. But what had happened that day went beyond Mattie Young and his anger at Chris, his drinking, his sense of entitlement.
When he’d gone up to Ellis’s house, Chris had asked about Linc, not because he believed the boy was responsible for the break-in, but because he wanted to make sure Linc was safe. That was all.
Her caller. The killer. Why draw her up here? Why now?
Abigail went into the kitchen and dug out her descriptions of the photos that had been left for her and Owen. She’d tried to be as precise as possible.
She read through them, pictured each shot-the people in them, the angles, the shadows, the time of day. Lou would have experts looking at them. They’d have all the right equipment.
She thought of the photo of her and Owen on the rocks. She could feel his arms around her, his breath on her as he’d kept her from running to her dead husband, and she could remember how much she’d hated him. It was a visceral reaction, natural. He was the one who’d found Chris. He was the one who’d first realized there was no hope for her husband.
And he was the one who’d had to tell her.
She put her notes away and headed outside, locking her front door behind her. She saw the fat robin back up on its branch and felt a surge of hope that she couldn’t describe or even understand.
Halfway up the driveway, she veered off onto the path through the woods that led to the cliffs where Doe Garrison had drowned. Chris had taken her out there once, but this had never been one of her favorite spots. The transition from woods to cliffs and ocean was too abrupt-downright scary, as far as she was concerned. She wasn’t much on vertical drops unless there was a rail or a window.
Owen, she knew, wouldn’t mind at all.
One of the differences between them, she thought, picking up her pace.
They’d assumed Mattie took the picture of Doe’s body on the dock, after his and the Brownings’ failed attempt to rescue her. But he was just seventeen then, a boy still himself.
Would a teenager snap a picture of a dead girl-a pretty fourteen-year-old he knew?
