“My wife and I bought a used camper. We’re tearing it apart and plan to put it on the road and take off for three months. Then, who knows?”

“Think you’ll miss the work?”

“I’ve loved my job, but I’m looking forward to whatever comes next. What about you?” He set his mug down but kept his eyes on her. “You see yourself on the job for another twenty, twenty-five years?”

“You mean will I quit when I find Chris’s killer?”

“I mean will you quit either way. Can you see yourself investigating homicides twenty years from now when your husband’s is still unsolved?”

“I don’t think that far into the future.”

“Maybe you should,” Lou said, but he didn’t take the thought further, and nodded at her plate. “You taking that shrimp home with you?”

“No. Take them, Lou. Enjoy.”

He grinned at her. “I will.”

CHAPTER 9

By dusk, Abigail had put a second coat of her perky lupine-blue paint on the entry walls and was up on her stepladder, an unsteady relic from Chris’s grandfather, dipping her brush into her coffee can.

She’d poured about two inches of paint into it. If it fell off the ladder, there’d be less to clean up. A few touch-ups, and she’d be finished. Then came the cleanup. Brush, tray, rollers. Herself. She’d splattered paint on herself from head to toe.

Bob or Scoop or any of the guys she rented the house to would have gladly painted with her or for her, and they wouldn’t have cared about getting a break on rent-they knew she could have charged twice as much. She didn’t care about making a profit.

But doing the work, the steady rhythm of it, the kind of concentration it required, helped anchor her mind just enough for her to think productively, not an easy concept to explain but one that worked for her.

Not that she’d produced any great insights since she’d first dipped her brush into the blue paint.

She’d opened up all her windows and could hear gulls and the wash of the tide, passing boats, the occasional rustle of leaves and branches in the wind. Peaceful sounds that somehow made her feel less isolated.

She thought of Owen and wondered if he ever felt isolated, or if he would have preferred to have their quiet waterfront all to himself.

A different sound caught her attention. She paused, paintbrush in midair, to hear better.

There it was again.

A whisper, she decided. Someone was outside.

She laid her brush across the top of her coffee can and dismounted the ladder, then fetched her gun from the small safe in the front room. She slipped on the belt holster. If not for the call the other night, she wouldn’t have bothered.

She stepped into the back room, listening through the open back door.

A whiny whisper. A sharp one in response.

Kids.

Tucking her weapon into her holster, Abigail walked outside, the evening air cool, almost cold, the navy blue sky dotted with the first stars of the night.

“Shh.” Another whisper. “Be quiet.”

“I am being quiet. You’re the one.”

The voices came from a trio of pine trees to Abigail’s right. She walked down the porch steps. “You can come out of the trees. The mosquitoes must be eating you alive.”

“You won’t tell our dad?”

The Alden boys, she thought. Had to be. Doyle and Owen had developed a tight, if unexpected, friendship, especially in the years since Chris’s death.

“Come on, guys. Sean and Ian, right? It’s getting dark.”

The two boys stepped out from behind the smallest of the pines into the yard. The older boy, Sean, looked more defiant than embarrassed or fearful. Ian stayed a half step behind his brother.

“You remember me, don’t you? Abigail-Abigail Browning.”

They nodded simultaneously but said nothing.

“Are you and your dad visiting Owen?”

“Just us,” Sean said. “Dad’s at a meeting.”

“Is Owen behind you?”

Ian gasped, but Sean shook his head. “We’re on a mission,” he said in a serious tone.

Abigail didn’t want to make light of whatever they were up to. “What kind of mission?”

“Sean.” Ian tugged on his brother’s arm. “We can’t tell her. Dad’ll kill us.”

Sean was silent a moment, then said, “Ian and me are just practicing our nighttime navigation skills.”

“That’s your mission?” she asked.

Both boys nodded.

“How did you end up here? Was that part of your mission?”

Ian took a step forward, and in the light from her house, Abigail saw that he was pale and nervous. Because of her? She could see tears forming in his eyes.

“Boys,” she said gently, “what’s going on?”

Before they could answer-or lie-pine branches moved behind them, creating shadows on the grass, and Sean and Ian shot toward Abigail, ducking behind her with a terror that was both immediate and real.

“It’s just me,” Owen said, ducking out into the open. “Sorry if I startled everyone.”

Given his experience, stealth would come almost naturally to him at this point. Abigail slipped her arms over the boys’ shoulders as they stood on either side of her. “Why don’t we all go inside for a minute? You can inspect my paint job while I make hot chocolate. Then you can warm up before you go on your way.”

Owen eyed the boys, unamused. “You two told me you were going upstairs to read.”

“We did,” Sean said. “We just-”

“I can’t have you stay with me if you’re going to sneak out.” Owen shifted to Abigail, easing up slightly. “They went out a window on a bedsheet. I was lighting a fire in the woodstove. I never heard a thing.”

“They told me they were practicing their nighttime navigation skills,” she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. She gave their shoulders a quick squeeze. “But I think there’s more to their story, right, guys?”

Ian broke away from her and appealed to Owen. “I told Sean-”

“You’re responsible for your own decisions.”

“But he made me!”

Sean snorted. “I didn’t make you do anything. You wanted to go.”

“I didn’t think the ghost was real.” Ian had a panicked note in his voice now. “I thought-I thought-”

“Whoa, slow down,” Owen said.

Abigail turned Sean to face her and bent down so that she had eye contact with him. “Tell me about the ghost, okay? Everything you can think of.”

His face had gone deathly white, his lower lip trembling, but he didn’t respond.

“We heard it,” Ian said, crying now. “We heard the ghost!”

Abigail didn’t shift her gaze from Sean, who nodded. “We heard it breathing.”

“Where?” she asked.

“In the ruins.”

“The ruins?”

“The old foundation,” Owen said. “That’s where you heard someone the other night, too, isn’t it, boys?”

“Yes,” Sean said.

“Might it have been an animal?” Abigail asked. “A fox or a squirrel maybe?”

The older boy, his color only marginally improved, shook his head. “It was human. It was…we think it was…”

Chris, she thought.

She put a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Do you boys think you heard my husband’s ghost?”

A tear dribbled down his cheek. “We had to be sure. The other night-we were pretty sure that’s who it was. Now-” He wiped his tear with the back of his hand, took a quick breath. “It has to be.”

Abigail straightened and glanced at Owen, who looked pained, not only for the frightened boys in his charge, she thought, but for her. “I’m sorry. They have active imaginations.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but they heard something out here.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a ghost.”

She didn’t care. “Wait in the house. I’ll go take a look. Then I can drive you all back to your place.”

“That’s not necessary,” Owen said quietly. “The boys and I can investigate on our way back.”

Abigail shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then we’ll go together.”

She could see he was as determined as she was. The tension between them seemed to have helped steady the boys. She sighed. “All right. Let me get a flashlight.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry-I’ve got on the right shoes.”