Oh God, Sylvia Blaire. That poor, poor girl. What had they done?

“Jillian.”

She didn't turn around. She didn't need to, to know who it was. “Bring your thumbscrews this time?”

“Actually, we're always armed with thumbscrews. Department policy. But I'm a good old Catholic boy-I wouldn't dream of using thumbscrews on a priest.”

She stiffened, then finally turned. Sergeant Griffin stood in the sand outside the deck railing. His cheeks were dark and shadowed, the line of his jaw impressively square, his eyes impressively bright. Even ten feet away, she could feel the impact of his presence. The broad shoulders, muscular arms, bulging chest. No different than any other state policeman, she thought resentfully. It was as if the department had a mold, and churned out one well-chiseled officer after another. She'd never been one for brawn anyway. She considered the size of a man's muscles directly inverse to the power of his brain.

“You should've just told me,” he said now, his voice quiet but firm.

“Why? I'd already said the money had nothing to do with Eddie's death. If you weren't prepared to believe that, why should I have expected you to believe an even bigger fairy tale?”

“It's not a fairy tale.”

She shrugged. “Close enough. I gave the money to Father Rondell in cash, took no receipt, ensured there were no witnesses, and made anonymity the primary condition of the donation. If you want evidence of where the money went, I have none to give you.”

“A priest's word is pretty good evidence.”

“Yes, but he wasn't supposed to tell you.”

Griffin smiled. “I confess, all good Catholic faith aside, I kind of tricked him.”

“You tricked a priest?”

“Well, it was for a good cause. I was proving a woman's innocence.”

Jillian snorted. “Let's not get carried away.”

“Actually, I can't take all the credit. Fitz told me to go talk to Father Rondell. So I approached him, saying that I needed confirmation that you had donated money to help Eddie Como's son. Immediately, he was quite gushing about your twenty-thousand-dollar generosity. It seems that Eddie, Jr., has a guardian angel.”

“It's not his fault what his father did. He wasn't even born.”

“Tawnya doesn't know?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Not even the Survivors Club?”

“Not even the Survivors Club.”

“Why, Jillian?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I just… Trish was gone. Carol's a mess. Meg has lost her past. And I… well, I have my own issues, don't I? Last year when the police finally arrested Eddie, I expected to feel better. Vindicated, satisfied, something. But I didn't. Because Trish was still gone, and Carol's still a mess and Meg still has no memory, and now we're seeing pictures of Eddie's pregnant girlfriend and all I can think is here's another victim. A baby who will grow up without his father. One more destroyed life. It seemed too much.” She shook her head. “I needed… I just needed something good to come out of all of this. I needed to feel that someone would escape Eddie's mistakes. And God knows we never will.”

“So you set up a trust fund for Eddie's child.”

She shrugged. “I asked Detective Fitzpatrick for the name of someone close to the Como family. He gave me Father Rondell's name. Father Rondell took care of things from there.”

“But you kept it secret.”

“I didn't know if Miss Clemente would accept the money if she knew where it came from.”

“And why not tell Meg and Carol?”

“I didn't think they'd like it. Besides, it's not really their business, is it? It's my money. My decision.”

Griffin smiled. “You like to do that. Be a group player as long as it suits you, but revert back to an individual the minute it cramps your style.”

She just looked at him. “How did you know I was here?”

“Brilliant detective work, of course.”

She snorted again. He raised his right hand. “Scout's honor. Finding you is my biggest accomplishment today. Well, other than tracing your money, but Fitz is the one who connected those dots. After talking to the priest, however, I wanted to confirm the transaction with you. Being of sound mind, however, I figured you wouldn't magically take my call. So I figured I needed to see you in person. And then I started thinking, if I were Jillian Hayes, where would I be today of all days, with the press hot on my heels? I figured you wouldn't go to work, because you wouldn't want to turn your business into a media circus. Then I figured for the same reason, you couldn't go home-it would just bring the press down on your family. Then I confess, I made a wrong turn and tried your sister's gravesite. For the record, three reporters already had it staked out.”

Jillian looked at him curiously. “I did try there first. After spotting the reporters, however, I turned away.”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “Then it occurred to me. Like any good Rhode Islander, you're bound to have a beach house. So I did a search of Narragansett property records. Nothing in your name. Then I tried your mother's. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“I see your point. Positively brilliant detective work. So who killed Sylvia Blaire?”

Griffin promptly grimaced. “Touché.”

“I'm not trying to be cruel. At least not yet.”

“Are you beginning to doubt Eddie's guilt, Jillian?”

“I don't know.”

“That's the same as a yes. May I?” He gestured to the three steps leading up to the deck. She hesitated. Nodding would invite him in. He'd take a seat, become part of her last hideaway, and she had such little privacy left. Maybe he'd even sit close to her. Maybe she'd feel the heat of his body again, find herself staring at those arms.

When her legs had given out last night… When he had caught her in his arms, and shielded her from her neighbors' voyeuristic stares… She remembered the warmth of him then. The feel of his arm, so easily supporting her weight. The steadiness of his gaze as he waited for her to pull herself together once more.

And she hated herself for thinking these things.

Jillian moved to the opposite side of the deck from the stairs. She was still in her navy blue suit from this morning, and it was difficult to negotiate the deck boards in heels. She took a seat on a built-in wooden bench. Then, finally, she nodded.

“It's nice here,” Sergeant Griffin commented, climbing aboard. “Great view.”

“My mother bought it twenty years ago, before Narragansett became, well, Narragansett.” She gestured her hand to the oversized homes that now bordered the property. Not beach houses anymore, but beach castles.

“Never thought of expanding?”

“If we built out, we'd lose the beach. If we built up, we'd block the view for the house across the street. And what would we gain? A bigger kitchen, a more luxurious bedroom? My mother didn't buy this place for the kitchen or bedroom. She bought it for the beach and the ocean view.”

“You have an amazingly practical perspective on things.”

“I grew up with a lounge singer, remember? Nothing teaches you to respect practicality more than growing up on the New York club circuit.”

“Different hotel every night?”

“Close enough.” She tilted her head to the side. “And you?”

“Rhode Islander. All my life. Good Irish stock. My mother makes the best corned beef and cabbage and my father can drink a man three times his size under the table. You haven't lived until you've been to one of our family gatherings.”

“Large family?”

“Three brothers. Two of them are state marshals, actually. We've probably been policing for as long as there have been cops. If you think about it, it's a natural fit for Irishmen. No one knows how to get into trouble better than we do. Ergo, we're perfect for penetrating the criminal mind.” He smiled wolfishly.

Jillian felt something move in her chest. She gripped the edge of the wooden bench more tightly, then looked away.