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He didn’t respond as he put a hand down to her.

She let him pull her to her feet, listening for seagulls and picturing herself with Owen on Mount Desert Island, farther up the Maine coast, walking on the rocks pregnant with their first child. Grief welled up inside her. After all this time, what if she didn’t live to have babies? What if Owen…

“You’ll be reunited with him soon, love. Your man, Owen, is searching for Mr. Estabrook’s plane in Montana. He’s not one to sit tight.” Fletcher winked at her. “He’d be proud of you.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Me?” He gave her a sexy grin. “Count on it.”

As he turned from her, Abigail saw an ache in his gray eyes. She hadn’t imagined it or wished it there. Whoever he was, whatever game he was playing, Myles Fletcher had his own secrets and regrets.

And he was more alone in the world than she was.

Chapter 26

Near Kennebunkport, Maine

6:25 a.m., EDT

August 27

Will stood out on Lizzie’s deck in the gray of the southern Maine early morning. Fog had overspread the coast and stolen away the expansive view of the water. He had endured an interminable night on her sofa, the doors and windows open to the breeze and the sounds of seabirds, boats, a nearby chattering red squirrel. He’d have enjoyed the atmosphere of the little ocean house more if he’d been in Lizzie’s bed.

With her, of course.

She was down by an evergreen, gnarled from its exposure to the ocean winds and salt spray, clinging to the edge of the rocks above the water. She’d slipped outside while he was in the shower. A signal, he’d thought, that she’d slept as fitfully as he had-and that she was as worried about Abigail Browning as he was and hoping she’d made the right decision in coming to Maine. Lizzie was no more patient with feeling useless than he was.

She was an innocent civilian, he reminded himself. A hotelier, even if one who’d made sacrifices and taken dangerous risks to expose a criminal network and bring a wealthy, resourceful man to justice.

Josie Goodwin had texted him from Ireland asking him to call her. Will dialed her now as he watched Lizzie pick up a small rock and fling it into the fog.

“Our friends in the garda would prefer I not call you,” Josie said when she picked up. “But I am ignoring their wisdom.”

“Where are you?”

“At Aidan O’Shea’s farmhouse. It’s a delight. Two sheep just wandered up to me among the roses. I had tea with Keira this morning. The guards objected letting me see her at first, but I persuaded them.”

Will smiled. “Of course you did. What have you learned?”

“Keira can draw scary pictures as well as beautiful ones, and Michael Murphy had helpers. He’s cooperating. He led the guards to an isolated house near the old copper mines. He and two friends planned to take Simon there after he’d discovered Keira’s body in the stone circle.”

“They were to hold him for Estabrook,” Will said.

“Yes. He wanted to witness Simon’s grief and then kill him himself, with his own hands.”

Will stared into the fog. He could hear a seagull, invisible in the distance. Lizzie had moved to the other side of her tree. “I want this bastard, Josie.”

“So do I. We’re not alone. The guards, Keira and I have become great friends. But there’s more, Will. Before her death, Shauna Morrigan Rush tipped off the Americans to an FBI agent working with the Boston Irish mob…” When Will didn’t respond, Josie added, “That would be Lizzie Rush’s mother, Will.”

“Who tripped on a cobblestone on Temple Bar.”

“And whose family died in a tragic car accident when they rushed to Dublin after hearing the news of her death. The Boston police sent a detective to Ireland to look into Shauna’s death.”

Will gripped his phone. “John March.”

“Indeed,” Josie said. “Shortly after he returned from Dublin, he exposed the identity of an FBI agent who had dealings-imagine this-with the Boston Irish mob. The Irish ruled the deaths of Shauna and her family accidents.”

“Undoubtedly March didn’t tell them all he knew.”

“Does he ever tell anyone all he knows?”

It wasn’t a question Will was meant to answer. Below him, Lizzie’s hair seemed as black as the rocks that ran up and down the immediate coastline. The famous beaches of southern Maine were farther to the north and south. He envisioned exploring tide pools with her in some vague and no doubt unrealizable future.

“Will? Are you there?”

He understood the concern he heard in Josie’s voice. He wasn’t one for a wandering mind, in part because he was so disciplined about avoiding romantic entanglements, particularly on the job.

But was he, really, on the job right now?

“March attracts tragedy,” Will said.

“No one goes through life without facing tragedy, but a man with his life is bound to face more than his share. Director March is a complex and honest man,” Josie said, unusually thoughtful and introspective. “He’s had to make difficult choices, and he has secrets. They come with the work he does, and he’s been at it a long time.”

“What do you suppose we’ll be doing in thirty years, Josie?”

Her bright laugh broke through their somber mood. “I’ll be having tea with other toothless old women and telling tales about my days working with a handsome nobleman. They’ll think I’ve gone daft and won’t believe a word.” She quickly returned to the serious matters at hand. “Will, if Shauna Morrigan was killed because she was an informant for March, then your Lizzie Rush has reason to hate him.”

“Estabrook must know. Her past could be the reason he befriended her in the first place. He could have been drawn to the drama of it initially, and as his obsession with March grew-”

“He could want Lizzie as his ally in fighting March,” Josie interjected, “or perhaps as a prize of some sort-the motherless child wronged by a powerful and ambitious man. Estabrook’s a very twisted human being, Will. It’s not easy to get inside his thinking.”

“Lizzie knows, or at least suspects, what he’s up to,” Will said. “That’s why she’s here. She hopes he’ll come to her.”

Josie didn’t respond at once. “From what I’ve managed to get out of our Irish friends, Shauna Morrigan was very good. Regardless of how she died. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, things don’t work out the way we mean them to.”

Will stiffened as he noticed two men emerge from the trees and fog on the path along the edge of the rocks and approach Lizzie.

A dark-haired man touched her arm, and she turned to him.

Will peered through the gloom, recognizing the man’s movements, his posture. “Josie, I have to go.”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

But Will had disconnected.

Lizzie called up to him on the deck. “I’ll be back soon.”

She went with the two men.

With Myles Fletcher.

They ducked behind the evergreen and disappeared up the path, in the thick fog.

Will bolted for the stairs, but Simon was on the top step, blocking the way. “Hold on, Will,” he said, putting up a hand. “Think.”

“Simon, it’s Myles. I can’t let him-”

“We won’t let anything happen to Lizzie. You, me, we’re here for her.”

“You’re an FBI agent. You have procedures you need to follow.”

“Listen to me, Will. Norman doesn’t know Lizzie is March’s source. March didn’t even know until yesterday. I sure as hell didn’t have a clue.” Simon came up onto the deck, its wood shiny and wet from the damp air. “She’s been playing this game for months.”

“Not with Myles she hasn’t.”

“ Norman forced Abigail to talk to her father last night.” Simon turned to Will as he stood in front of the railing. “It was bad.”

Will understood what his friend was saying and didn’t need him to describe the call in detail. “I’m sorry, Simon. I can only imagine how painful that must have been for March-for you.” He walked over to the railing. A red squirrel scampered up the tree where only moments ago Lizzie had been throwing rocks into the water. Had she seen the men on the path? Could she have called for his help sooner, run back to the house-kept them from taking her? “I know how Myles thinks. I know his tactics.”