“Pouring. What’re you doing in Bar Harbor?”

“I just toured the Abbe Museum. Have you ever gone through it? It’s dedicated to the Native Americans of Maine. Fascinating.” She brushed raindrops off her hair. She didn’t have a hat or umbrella, but the rain had tapered off to an intermittent drizzle. “And I just bought a moose sweatshirt.”

“You’re not playing tourist,” Bob said. “What’s in Bar Harbor that you think might lead you to your anonymous caller?”

“Nothing specific. I’m casting a wide net.”

“Owen Garrison’s new field academy is setting up in Bar Harbor.”

“So it is.” She’d stopped by on her way into town, and no one was there. “Katie Alden’s going to be its director. The chief of police’s wife.”

“Good for her. What about the FBI? They poking around in Bar Harbor?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

Bob sighed. “I wish I had something to report on my end. Now that you’ve had a second call, we’re taking another look at the one you got on Newbury Street. Nothing but dead ends so far.”

“I gave Lucas a list of people who know I frequent that particular restaurant.”

“We’ve already gone through the list. The truth is, anyone could know. Wasn’t it in the papers one year? Some reporter said how you spend your wedding anniversary having dinner alone there-”

“That was at least five years ago. Who’d think I still went there? And why wait until now to act?”

“Because ‘things are happening’ now,” Bob said, a bite of frustration in his voice. “Craziness. We’ll figure this out, Abigail. You just keep your eyes open and stay safe.”

“I will, Bob. Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, no, why should I worry? You’re up on an island in the rain, all alone, with some maniac calling you at five o’clock in the morning, and you’re going to museums and buying moose sweatshirts. Who the hell would worry?”

By the time he finished, he had her laughing. “Goodbye-”

“And Owen Garrison. Let’s not forget the studly rich guy. I’ve seen him, you know. I’m doing my homework-guy’s in Maine resting up after a year of nonstop rescue and recovery work. Guys like that, they don’t rest.”

Fair warning, that, Abigail thought, suddenly feeling warm. “Are you done now?”

“Yeah. No-” He bit off a sigh. “If you need anything-anything-you know I’ll be there. Scoop, too. Just say the word.”

“Thank you. I do know that. And I appreciate it.”

But Bob couldn’t resist. “Anything you need, kiddo. Bail money, a spare set of handcuff keys-”

She laughed and disconnected, slipping her cell phone into her jacket pocket. She hadn’t lied to him. She had visited the museum and bought a moose sweatshirt. But she’d also asked around about MattieYoung, making up a story about having heard that his old photographs were in demand. A woman in the sweatshirt store had pointed to a small gallery that, she believed, had some of Mattie’s work in stock.

Abigail walked down the street and ducked into the gallery, its display window offering the obligatory watercolor of the rockbound coast and a red-and-white striped Maine lighthouse-and she could understand why. If she could have afforded the painting, she’d have bought it herself. On a bad day in Boston, she would close her eyes and conjure up just such an image, of bright sky, rocks and glistening ocean. Why not add a picturesque lighthouse?

She eased off her wet jacket, careful not to let it drip on any of the wares, and wandered among shelves of carved waterfowl and pottery painted with wild blueberries and cranberries, and walls crammed with original paintings and photography.

A wiry older man-he had to be at least eighty-greeted her. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for the work of a local photographer, Mattie Young.”

He seemed surprised. “Mattie? Heavens. I haven’t had anyone ask about him in ages. Yes, we do carry his work. A few pieces. We don’t have anything on display right now-we haven’t in a long, long time.”

“May I see what you do have?”

“Of course.”

But as he led her through an open doorway to a small room lined with cabinets, Abigail saw Owen entering the gallery. He waved to her as he crossed the gallery toward her.

“Fancy meeting you here, Abigail.”

She noticed the older man straighten his spine as he inclined his head in greeting.

“Mr. Garrison. We haven’t seen you in some time. I’d heard you were on the island.”

“It has been a long time, Walt. Too long.”

Abigail didn’t know why she was surprised at the exchange between the two men. The Garrisons had been fixtures on Mt. Desert Island for more than a hundred years. She wondered if Walt had known Owen’s grandfather, too.

Not that their reunion stopped her from speaking her mind. “Did you follow me?” she asked Owen.

He smiled. “Tough to miss you in that red jacket.”

It was very red. “You’re not wet. What, were you driving past the gallery, saw me and decided to pop in?”

“I was on my way to the field academy.”

“You must have had good parking karma,” she said, then turned back to Walt, who had stopped in front of a cabinet of thin, deep drawers.

“We might have one or two other pieces,” he said. “But most of what we have is in here. Do you know Mattie?”

Abigail didn’t look at Owen as she answered. “He and my husband grew up together.”

“Your husband?”

“He died seven years ago. Chris Browning.”

The man’s aged eyes settled on her a moment, any awkwardness fleeting. He nodded. “I knew your husband’s grandfather. I didn’t know Chris well. He’s the one who persuaded Mattie to display his work.”

“Mattie’s had his ups and downs over the years.”

“Yes. They started long before your husband was killed.”

And before she turned up on the scene. Although he didn’t say as much, Abigail knew Walt must have thought it. She, the FBI-they’d taken Chris away from the island and his friends. At least in their minds. But Abigail knew that Chris had always considered Mt. Desert Island home. Since she’d moved a lot growing up, that was fine with her.

Owen stood behind her, not crowding her, but not going on his way, either. “Has Mattie brought any new work in lately?” he asked Walt.

“Not recently, no. It could help us sell his older work.” The older man unlocked the drawer and opened it, gesturing at the contents. “Mattie has an incredible, unusual talent. You’ll see. These photographs are some of his best work. The earliest were taken when he was a teenager. They’re not as refined as his later work, of course, but his eye is there. Well, I’ll leave you to them.”

Walt withdrew to the outer room, and Abigail lifted a black-and-white print from the drawer. She took a breath, immediately recognizing the cliffs just down the waterfront from her house. Mattie had captured the dramatic beauty of the sheer granite face and the white-capped waves crashing onto massive rectangles of rock.

But the danger was there, too, palpable, unrelenting. The cliffs and the sea would be unforgiving of a carelessly placed foot, a reckless paddler, a poorly dressed hiker-a fourteen-year-old girl, Abigail thought, upset after a meaningless fight with a friend.

“Mattie took that picture the day Doe drowned,” Owen said.

“This picture? You’re sure?”

“He had his camera with him on the boat with Chris and his grandfather. This was later, after they’d gotten Doe to the harbor. He went back to the cliffs.”

“But there are no police-”

“They’d gone. Everyone had gone by then.”

“Were you with him?”

Owen shook his head, staring at the stark photograph. “No.”

“Then how do you know-”

“Chris told me years later. He didn’t want Mattie to put this particular photograph out into the public.”

“Mattie?”

“He didn’t agree.”

“But no one’s ever bought it,” Abigail said, setting the photograph on top of the cabinet and digging back into the drawer for more of Mattie’s work.