“I have faced it. I can drink one beer. Not everyone has to go cold turkey. One beer, and that’s it.”

“No, Mattie, you can’t drink one beer and that’s it.”

He rubbed his nose with his fingers and stared down at his feet, not out of shame, Doyle knew, but irritation. Mattie liked to think he knew better.

He lifted his head. “I wasn’t on Abigail’s property.”

“No, you were on Garrison property. Did Owen see you?”

“I shouldn’t have bothered coming here. I thought you were my friend.”

“You don’t treat your friends well, Mattie. You’re a chronic liar and a disappointment to everyone who’s ever cared about you. What do you expect me to do? As a friend?”

“Nothing. Not one damn thing. Just forget I even came here.”

“If Abigail crossed the line-”

“What would you do?”

“I’d do my job.”

Mattie snorted. “Yeah. Right. The detective daughter of the FBI director. Chris’s widow. You wouldn’t do anything if she knocked me on the head and I was in the E.R. for stitches.”

“Go home. Sleep off your self-absorbed rage. Stay off Owen Garrison’s property and don’t provoke Abigail.” Doyle regarded Mattie with a resignation he’d come to terms with a long time ago, a disappointment so deep, he couldn’t even feel it anymore. “That’s my advice.”

Mattie stepped forward abruptly, grabbing Doyle’s upper arm. “Something’s going on with Abigail.” He dug his fingers into Doyle’s arm, then let go, flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. “I’m attuned to people. I see everything. I see things other people don’t. It’s why I keep drinking.”

“You keep drinking because you’re an alcoholic and you won’t take responsibility for your own recovery.”

“I’m not being paranoid. Abigail wants to find Chris’s killer. I don’t even think she cares if she gets the right person anymore. She just wants it over. The wondering, the hunting.”

“Mattie, come on. You’re not making any sense.” Doyle felt the familiar sense of desperation that being around Mattie, his wasted life, often brought out in him. “Why would she push for answers if she doesn’t care if she gets the right answers?”

A veil of denial fell over him. Doyle had seen Mattie go into this mode before, shutting down, pretending he didn’t care what happened to him-to anyone. “Whatever. I just wanted you to know the score. You don’t want to tell her to stay away from me, fine. Your call. Say hi to the boys for me, okay? They should ride their bikes over to my place some afternoon.”

“Mattie-”

He’d already started down the steps and waved a hand to Doyle without looking back. “See you around, Chief. I need to be up early to help Ellis. Real estate agents are going to come check out the place soon. Everything’s got to be perfect.”

“Yeah,” Doyle said. “That’s Ellis. Hey, Mattie-”

But he was done. He walked out to the road and picked up his bicycle, walking it a few steps before climbing on. Doyle didn’t stop him. Years ago, he’d watched Mattie Young throw away his potential as a photographer and slip deeper and deeper into self-destruction, bitterness and entitlement. No one could help him if he didn’t want to help himself-if he didn’t even admit to the damn problem.

In the months before Chris’s death, they’d all seen a glimmer of hope. Mattie was cleaned up, working hard, doing his photography. Happy. Making plans for the future. Taking responsibility for his own recovery and making the needed changes in his life.

He’d started to slip before Chris’s wedding. And two days after Owen had found Chris’s body-before their friend was even laid to rest-Mattie turned up on Doyle’s doorstep, drunk.

He’d had fits and starts of sobriety in the seven years since, but he’d always find a reason to go back into the bottle. Now, it seemed to be because he’d convinced himself he could manage one beer.

Except, from the description Owen had given, Doyle knew damn well Mattie wasn’t stopping his solitary parties after just one beer.

He shut the door and went back inside, wishing Katie was there to talk to. She’d known Mattie as long as he had, but she had more distance than Doyle did.

He was just wrung out.

“What did Mattie want?” Sean asked.

“Not much. You boys ready for bed?”

For a change, they didn’t argue with him or pick a fight with each other. Doyle followed them upstairs. If he had his way, Katie would be home this summer, and Abigail Browning would be investigating homicides in Boston, not sticking her thumb in everyone’s eye up here.

But when the hell did he ever get his way?

Mattie got off his bike thirty yards from his house and walked it to his driveway. His butt hurt from the hard seat. He wanted to get one of those gel seats.

What he really wanted was to have his license back.

Doyle had refused to pull any strings to help him or look the other way. He could have-Mattie hadn’t run over anyone or anything. His blood-alcohol level had been just over the legal limit. What harm would it have done for Doyle to give him one more chance?

As he dropped his bike onto the grass in front of his crummy rented house, someone darted out of the dark shadows. He jumped back, almost screaming.

Grace Cooper put a finger to her perfect lips. “Shh. It’s just me.”

“Grace-man, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want anyone to see me.”

Of course not. He nodded like a fool. “I understand. I’ll be at your place tomorrow to mow the lawn. Why didn’t you just wait-”

“This can’t wait.” She spoke in a controlled voice just above a whisper. “Mattie, the FBI’s here, on the island.”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his denim jacket and tapped one out, noticing that his hands were surprisingly steady. “They are, huh? Daddy March knows them?”

“There are a lot of FBI agents. Abigail’s father can’t possibly know them all.”

“Bet he knows the ones sent here to check up on you.”

“They’re not checking up on me. They’re conducting a routine background investigation.”

She had on a long, shapeless sweater, its ice-blue color and the harsh light from the nearby houses washing out her face more. She wasn’t as plain as she thought she was, and she could be passionate. Mattie remembered just how passionate.

He knew she didn’t want to remember anything about their time together.

She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she knew what he was thinking. “Long day today?”

“They’re all long days this time of year. What’re you doing, besides worrying about what people are going to tell the FBI?”

“My father and I took the boat out today. The little one.” She licked her lips, looking away from him. “It’s a good time to be away from Washington for a few days. Things are quiet.”

“I’d like a nice lazy day.”

“We used to have days like that. Remember?” She turned back to him, a spark of affection in her eyes, surprising him. “You’d keep a camera with you at all times. You had such hope.”

“So did you,” he said.

“I still do. This appointment means a lot to me.”

“And to your father?”

“Of course. He’s very supportive. Mattie-I’d never ask you to lie…” She trailed off. When he didn’t speak, she shook her head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have come.”

“The FBI doesn’t know about our affair.”

She lowered her eyes. “No. I didn’t tell them.”

“It’d come back to haunt you, wouldn’t it? An affair with the town drunk. The yardman. A murdered FBI’s no-account friend.” Mattie couldn’t believe the bitterness in his tone, how fast it had infected him. “I’m the guy you had because you couldn’t have him.”

She gasped. “That’s not true! That was never true.”

“No?”

“Of course not. Mattie, don’t say such a thing.”

But he knew it was true. He’d known it seven and a half years ago, when he’d had five months of bliss-pure heaven-with Grace Cooper. He’d had such high hopes. She’d planned to rescue him from himself, clean him up, show him off as her brilliant photographer lover, her salt-of-the-earth Mainer.