“I won’t-I don’t know how I made it across those rocks to get here as it is. Must be the pancakes I had for breakfast.”

“And for the record,” he said, half lifting her out to the deck, “you can see my scars anytime.”

He’d gone and done it now, Mattie thought, feeling terrible as he slipped through the iron gate on the border between Ellis’s gardens and the woods. Ellis was at the family estate on Somes Sound. Mattie had seized upon his absence to sneak down to Abigail’s house, hoping she wouldn’t be there-hoping he’d have the window of time he needed.

He’d taken what precautions he’d thought of. Cutting the phone line, hanging on to the drywall saw. He just couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

He crept along the fence, behind a swing that had been there since the Garrisons had owned the property. When he reached the shed he checked his trail for any footprints.

He’d just sliced open a cop. They’d all be looking for him now.

But he had his story ready. Doyle would believe him. Didn’t Doyle always believe him?

You don’t have your license because Doyle didn’t believe you when you said you hadn’t been drinking.

Mattie silenced the voices of doubt in his head and unlatched the shed door, stepping inside its crowded but ultra-neat single room of tools and garden supplies. Thankfully, he could relatch the door from the inside and wouldn’t have to leave it swinging open.

Sunlight angled through the small, paned windows, somehow making him feel more claustrophobic, more trapped.

He worked his way past bags of fertilizer, peat moss and dried cow manure to the back of the shed, where he pushed aside a stack of old wooden lobster pots and got down on his hands and knees.

Using his fists, he banged on the piece of plywood he himself had tacked onto the opening the chickens had used. It was bigger than necessary, really, for chickens, but that could help him in a pinch. The wood came free easily, but he left it leaned up against the hole. It was unlikely anyone would notice it, one way or the other, but he’d taken enough chances already.

If he had to, he could crawl out the tiny door and get into the woods, disappear.

He’d expected to have to disappear at some point, just not until he had his money. The whole ten grand. More. Damn it, Linc could spare it. He deserved to pay up for what he’d done. For the secrets he’d kept. The blackmail would help cleanse his soul.

Excuses. You should have told Doyle everything last night.

Mattie shook his head. He couldn’t afford to let any doubts creep in, undermine him. Not now. Not when he’d gone past the point of no return.

He sat on the floor, his back against a lobster pot. Was it one of Will Browning’s old pots? Pa, Mattie used to call him. Ol’ Pa Browning. He was the Browning who’d lived a long life.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right. Remember that, Mattie.”

Ah, Pa.

“I’m trying,” Mattie whispered. “I’m trying hard.”

At least Pa Browning hadn’t lived to see his grandson murdered. A small blessing, at least.

Mattie didn’t know if he fell asleep, or if he’d simply gone into some kind of trance, but he became aware of the shed door creaking open. He went very still, silently reassured himself that he couldn’t be seen from the door. If it was Ellis, returned from paying homage to his brother, he’d never come this far into the shed.

The door shut-Mattie could hear it, feel more than see the change in light.

“It’s me,” Linc Cooper said. “I’m alone.”

Mattie got to his feet, but stayed close to the little chicken door. “Ellis isn’t back yet, is he?”

Linc shook his head, making his way to the rear of the shed. “The cops have gone out to talk to him and my father. They’re looking for you. They think you attacked Abigail Browning.”

“I didn’t attack her-that’s not what happened.”

“Then tell that to Chief Alden. He knows you. He won’t want to believe you’d deliberately hurt anyone. Running just makes you look guilty. What about your bike? Mattie, they’ll find you-”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He’d hid his bike in the woods, where no one would find it, but he had no intention of giving Linc that information-that much power over him.

Linc sneered at him. “Always innocent, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Mattie felt a surge of impatience. “You’d better hope our Detective Browning doesn’t think you attacked her.”

“Me? Why would I?” The kid squared his shoulders and gave Mattie an icy, superior look. “I’m not playing your game.”

“This isn’t a fucking game.”

“Whatever.” Linc stepped closer to him, holding out an envelope to him. “Here’s another two thousand. That’s four thousand, total. Take it, Mattie, and get out of here. Before you go too far. What if you’d killed Abigail today? She’s the daughter of the director of the FBI. She’s a cop-”

“You’re a bastard, Linc, you know that?” Mattie kept his voice calm, never mind the lousy situation he was in. He hadn’t meant for things to go this way. “You’re just like your father. Don’t think you’re different, because you’re not. You’re a cutthroat son of a bitch just like he is. A chip off the old block.”

Linc’s cheeks flamed red. “Better than being a foul-smelling drunk who betrays his own friends.”

Mattie snatched the envelope from him and inspected the contents, the mix of green bills. A new beginning. But his eyes welled up with tears. He coughed, covering for himself. “I want the rest.”

“I can’t-”

“I have Abigail’s necklace.”

He relished watching the shock seize Linc, turn him ashen, force him to take a step back, stumble on a bag of cow manure. “Mattie…Christ…”

“You remember her necklace. It was her grandmother’s. Abigail wore it on her wedding day. The ‘something borrowed.’ Pearls, with a cameo pendant. You grabbed it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You thought no one was at the house. I’ll give you that. But she was there, and you hit her on the head-”

“Show it to me.” Linc had recovered slightly, his cockiness, his natural arrogance, rising to the challenge. “If you’ve got the necklace, show it to me.”

Mattie shook his head. “I don’t trust you not to hit me over the head.”

“If I stole it, how did you end up with it?”

“I know where you stashed it.”

Linc looked as if he’d throw up any second. “I don’t know how you can sleep at night. A six-pack of cheap beer makes all the difference, though, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not helping yourself.”

“I don’t care. I’m not paying you another dime. If you’ve got evidence that ties me to Chris’s murder, take it to the police. I don’t care anymore.”

He cared. Mattie could see the fear-the self-loathing-in the kid’s eyes. “I’m not greedy.”

Linc snorted. “You’re such a creep, Mattie.”

“You should have thrown the necklace in the ocean. That’s what you’re thinking now, isn’t it? But you panicked.”

“I’m leaving.” Linc straightened, looking less green. “I’m not going to turn you in. Sink in your own slime. But I’m through, Mattie. Do what you want to do with the necklace. I didn’t steal it. I didn’t kill Chris. I don’t know who did.”

He spun on his heels and marched out of the shed, latching the door behind him.

Mattie sank back onto the cold concrete floor. He had four thousand dollars on him, in his possession. When had he ever had this much cash? Why not take it and go?

Let it be enough. Make it be enough.

He’d just attacked Abigail Browning. Chris’s wife. His friend’s true love.

“You should have been at our wedding, Mattie. It was something.”

But Mattie hadn’t been able to see beyond his outrage at his friend the FBI agent cutting him off.

“You’re drinking again. I’m through.”

Mattie got out his cigarettes, tapped one out and stuck it on his lip. He didn’t dare light it. He sank his head against the stack of lobster pots.