And when her eyes were closed, she could pretend he was the man she couldn’t have.

By unspoken agreement, Mattie had never said aloud that she was in love with Christopher Browning. But she had been, and for all he knew, she still was.

“Who knows about us?” he asked.

She winced visibly. “No one.”

“What about your brother? He’s a sneaky little shit. He knows everything that goes on around here.”

“Linc doesn’t know. We did nothing wrong. I just don’t want to expose you to unnecessary scrutiny.”

He grinned at her. “That’s your story, huh?”

She stiffened, dropping her arms to her sides, as much of a display of emotion as he’d get from her. She’d always had remarkable self-control. A Cooper trait. Emotion was for the lower classes.

Emotion was what got Doe Garrison killed.

It was what got Chris Browning killed.

Mattie had heard Jason Cooper explain as much to his kids around the kitchen table. Doe got herself worked up over a minor squabble, and she drowned. Chris got mad because of what happened to his wife, and he was shot.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell the FBI you slept with the town drunk.” His voice caught, annoying him. He didn’t care about Grace anymore-he’d stopped caring a long, long time ago. “And I won’t tell them you were in love with one of their own.”

“You’re odious, Mattie.” She didn’t raise her voice. “I want to have sympathy for you and remember what we had those few months with affection, without regret. But I look at you, and I just want to be sick.”

“That’s it? You want to be sick? You don’t want to club me on the head with a rock or shoot me in the heart?”

“I wouldn’t waste my time.”

She crossed her arms tight over her chest and stalked back out to the road.

“Did you drive over here?” Mattie asked her calmly.

“I parked around the corner. I told my father and Linc that I was running an errand.”

“Not worried the FBI’s following you?”

“No.” She paused, giving him a long, cool look. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Say it enough times and maybe you’ll believe it.”

He watched her swallow and thought he saw a glimmer of a tear, but she turned and walked away.

The woman had everything. Brains, poise, a sense of decency. Money. A future. But she couldn’t be honest with herself.

Mattie headed up his front walk. He was no judge of character, but he could recognize another liar.

Grace lied to other people-about him, for one-but most of her lies, the worst of her lies, were to herself. Like now, he thought. She was lying to herself about just how scared she was-of him, of her own past.

Had she guessed what kind of trouble Linc was in?

Mattie told himself he didn’t give a damn. Grace Cooper didn’t care about him. Fine. He didn’t care about her, either.

He headed into his little rented house. It could fit into the Coopers’ kitchen-of their summer house. Mattie had never seen any of their other houses. Jason’s place in New York, Grace’s in Georgetown, Ellis’s in Alexandria. But as well-off as they were, Mattie didn’t envy them. He didn’t want to be a Cooper.

He wanted to be a photographer.

He wanted a fresh start.

But as he pushed open his front door, he felt a prick of guilt at how he was getting it.

CHAPTER 13

“Your husband had secrets.”

Abigail sat up in bed, fully awake after grabbing the phone on the second ring. “Who is this?”

“Just listen. Chris’s secrets got him killed. He wouldn’t talk to you. He wouldn’t talk to anyone.”

“Tell me more. Please.” She struggled to keep her tone firm but nonthreatening. “Don’t hang up.”

“He didn’t want to see you hurt.”

“Hurt how? Physically-or emotionally?”

There was no hesitation on the other end. “Both.”

“So he didn’t tell me these secrets?”

“He couldn’t. He loved you.”

She leaned back against her pillows and headboard, the early morning sun angling into her small bedroom through gaps in the curtains. The caller’s voice was disguised, as before. “How did you get my number here?” she asked. “It’s not listed.”

“Be careful who you trust while you’re in Maine.”

“Are you here? Are you watching me?”

“You have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. That’s all.”

“Why would anyone else get hurt? What’s going on? I need more information.”

“Your husband was an FBI agent and a Mainer. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t-I haven’t. Why don’t we meet? Just the two of us-”

The caller cut her off with a short, sarcastic laugh. “I don’t think so, Detective.”

Click.

Abigail glanced at her bedside clock. Five-oh-nine. She hung up, then picked up again and dialed Lou Beeler’s home number. He answered on the first ring. She tried smiling into the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’re already on your second cup of coffee-”

“Third,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I had another call,” she said, and told him.

When she finished, Lou sighed. “I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll collect Chief Alden on my way. Want me to bring doughnuts?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah. I’ll bet. See you soon.”

Abigail was shivering by the time she climbed out of bed. She slept in the smallest of the three bedrooms. The largest had been Chris’s grandfather’s room, the second largest Chris’s room. She’d cleaned out all their belongings and painted the furniture, bought new rugs and lamps and picked out inexpensive artwork, but the rooms still had the feel of the Browning men. She let her renters use them.

Moving quickly, Abigail showered, the hot streams of water calling up sensations she didn’t want to think about, of Owen’s hands on her, his mouth-her reaction. They hadn’t gone beyond their kiss last night. A bit more than a kiss, really, she thought. But afterward they’d had wine. Talked. He’d walked with her back to her house, then left with just a good-night, as if he, too, knew that was enough. Their attraction to each other was out on the table. That was plenty to get used to at least for now. She’d never brought a man here. It’d never seemed right. Too many ghosts in Maine. Too many memories. Easier, she thought, just to keep that part of herself out of reach.

Owen was different. He’d known Chris forever, and she didn’t have to explain to him what had happened, how he’d died, how she’d felt in those awful days.

And in the years since, he’d never patronized her because of her situation. He’d experienced tragedy himself, and he’d seen countless others who’d had to find a way to carry on after the worst kind of loss-babies, young children, entire families, entire communities.

Abigail switched off the water and grabbed a towel, rubbed herself dry. Never mind the rest of it, she thought. She’d responded to Owen for purely physical reasons. He felt good. The taste of him, the heat of his skin.

He’s bored.

He was a man of action with nothing to do. She’d be out of her mind if she got too far ahead of herself with him.

She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and slipped on sports sandals, leaving her hair to dry on its own as she headed downstairs. She grabbed her gun and checked outside, but she saw no sign of spies or intruders, just cormorants diving for fish and brightly colored lobster buoys bobbing in the glistening water.

Satisfied, Abigail went back inside and put on coffee. While it brewed, she sat at her kitchen table and wrote down every word of her conversation with her anonymous caller.

“Your husband had secrets.”

She finished her transcript and returned to the back room, grabbing her sledgehammer and tackling another section of the wall while she waited for the local law enforcement officers to arrive.

Ellis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Jordan Pond House, a tourist trap, if a pleasant one, famous for its postcard-perfect location and its tea and popovers. Day-trippers to Acadia National Park would take in the Visitors Center, Cadillac Mountain-the tallest peak on the Atlantic seaboard and the only one in the park they could drive up-and Jordan Pond House. Some would venture out along the twenty-mile Park Loop Road and stop at Thunder Hole, a favorite with its dramatic rock cliffs and crashing waves. Ellis hadn’t done the loop road in years, either.