He thought of Zoe's writings and wondered if that was what she'd run from as much as anything-not her father's murder, but her aunt's death, inheriting the rights to Jen Periwinkle, as if Olivia was daring her to write, daring her to embrace a different kind of life than Zoe had imagined for herself.

Must have been scary, picturing herself sitting out here on this rock bluff all alone for the next seventy years.

J.B. finished the last of his Scotch.

Well, what did he know? At least it gave him something to think about besides what the rest of Zoe's rose tattoo looked like.

"You beat up my son? What the fuck's the matter with you?"

Teddy yawned at Luke's hissing. The guy was frothing at the damn mouth, but who was on a toasty-warm yacht and who was freezing his ass off in a rusting truck? Teddy was cold and uncomfortable, stuck in the boonies for the night. He'd parked out in the salt marsh, probably right on top of a rare bird's nest or something, but before he showed his face again, he wanted to make sure the kid didn't go to the police.

"It was a misunderstanding." Teddy figured it was the best spin he could put on it. Misunderstanding, hell. The shitbird was snooping in his truck. Two minutes later, and he'd have been into the apple crate. He got what was coming to him. Any jury'd see it Teddy's way. "He's okay?"

"He's in pain. Betsy took a look at him. He didn't want to wake us, but Christina West insisted. They were supposed to have dinner together, and she became concerned when he didn't show up. Zoe and that FBI agent heard his car was spotted at the lobster pound and investigated. A lucky thing."

Do-gooders. Bored cops. Pains in his ass. "Your kid wasn't hurt that bad. He could have driven out."

"Apparently he was so incoherent from the beating you gave him that he couldn't find his way back to his car."

"Nah, he just got lost in the dark. He pressing charges?"

"No."

"I didn't realize it was your kid until it was too late."

"Kyle has a natural, unrestrained curiosity."

Kyle was a spoiled brat, but Teddy said nothing. An owl hooted nearby. At least he thought it was an owl. Somebody had once told him moose were out here, too. Just what he needed. A goddamn moose sticking its nose in his window. The moose he might shoot.

"Teddy, hiring you wasn't illegal, but people won't understand if it comes out. If it does, they'll learn about the mistake we made last fall."

The gun, Teddy thought. The Smith & Wesson.38 revolver that Luke had sold him last September. For such a finicky guy, Luke was lax in keeping up with Maine gun laws. Like he wasn't really there for months at a time on his yacht and didn't have to do the required paperwork. But his mistake was worse than not having the right permits-he'd sold a gun to a convicted felon.

His voice was calmer now, but still with that snotty undertone. "That's why confidentiality is such an important part of our agreement. It's why I'd like to offer you a bonus when we're finished with this job. And another bonus if you'll agree to leave town and never contact me again."

"How much?" "Thirty and fifty." Not bad. "Fifty and fifty." "Done." There wasn't even a hint of relief in Castellane's voice. Teddy held his knuckles up to his mouth and in the moonlight saw they were swollen and cut from where he'd slugged Kyle Castellane. He licked on one cut. "What's next?"

"The same mission. Maintain the status quo." Luke clicked off. Teddy tried to get comfortable in the front of his truck, but there was just no way. He pulled one of the tarps off his guns and ammo and used it as a blanket. It smelled like oil and dead fish, and it wasn't very warm.

The owl wasn't going to quit.

He'd examine his options in the morning. Even if he ended up having to clear out of Gooseshit Harbor, it wouldn't be until he'd had some sleep-and it wouldn't be until he got his hundred grand bonuses.

Zoe sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed and worked on her milk-gray scarf until she thought she'd go blind.

She didn't drop any stitches. She kept checking.

It was after midnight, and she'd heard J.B.'s door close down the hall. She hadn't meant to be rude, but she looked like hell when she cried, and what could he do but feel awkward and helpless, which she hated? But now she had a headache, and her sinuses were clogged. She didn't know when she'd feel like sleeping.

Donna Jacobs, the acting chief of police and forty-five-year-old mother of three, was in her office when Zoe arrived. That was a surprise, but Jacobs said she was going through paperwork and listened to Zoe without interruption.

Then Jacobs thanked her for the heads-up and showed her the door.

If the local police had any information on Teddy Shelton, Donna Jacobs wasn't saying. If she had misgivings about having an FBI agent and ex-detective on the loose in her town, she kept them to herself, too. She was professional and serious, and she treated Zoe as she would any other private citizen, never mind that she had her job because Zoe's father was dead.

It was exactly what Donna Jacobs should have done.

And it had nothing to do with why Zoe had dissolved into tears once she got back to the car. The emotion of walking into the police station where her father had worked for so many years, had overwhelmed her. That simple, that awful.

She was both surprised and pleased that J.B. had summoned the patience and grace to leave her alone and let her pull herself together, because she knew he had about a million and one questions about what had occurred with Kyle and Teddy Shelton out at Bruce's cottage.

She'd have to tell Bruce that J. B. McGrath, grandson of a Maine native, wasn't as obnoxious as people thought.

She remembered his startling, toe-curling, spine-melting kiss on the porch and smiled to herself, the tension easing out of her body. He'd come to Goose Harbor to recuperate after a grueling undercover operation, one that had ended with him having to kill or be killed in front of children.

He really had picked Goose Harbor because of his Maine roots.

More or less. Her father's unsolved murder and her aunt's death on its heels must have helped settle it.

The scar on his throat told her how close he'd come to being another name on the FBI Honor Roll.

She counted her stitches one last time.

Ninety-nine. It was supposed to be a hundred. She'd unraveled back to where she'd screwed up and started from there-and she'd dropped a stitch.

"No!"

She held up her scarf-in-the-making and saw immediately where she'd gone wrong, about four rows back.

That was the good thing about knitting. She could pinpoint what she'd done wrong and go back and get it right this time. If only life were like that.