Thirty-Five

The rain, the ocean and the wind pounded and swirled and howled outside the house where Olivia West had lived for a century. J.B. sat in the front room while Zoe and Bruce, like the childhood friends they were, argued over the fire they were trying to light. J.B. wasn't following the particulars, but finally Bruce looked around at him. "You're from Montana, McGrath. You must know how to light a fire. You do it."

"I can do it," Zoe said.

"Fine. Do it." Bruce got to his feet. "You remember how?"

She scowled at him, but J.B. knew that Bruce saw what J.B. saw, that Zoe hadn't even begun to come to terms with what had happened today. It was late, long after dinnertime, but none of them had eaten since morning. J.B. had drunk a cup of bad coffee at the Goose Harbor police station, where he'd told the Maine state police, the local police and the Special Agent in Charge of the Boston field office everything that had transpired since he'd arrived in town.

Donna Jacobs had left him alone to do a little more explaining to the SAC. "Hell of a vacation, McGrath," the SAC, a super-fit guy in his mid-forties, said. "How'd you get mixed up in this mess? A woman?"

A woman.

He watched Zoe pile her kindling in the fireplace the way she liked it and strike a match, the fire catching, spreading. She rolled back onto her knees and waited, as if it were the most important thing in the world that her fire not go out.

After J.B. shot Stick, she rolled herself out of the lobster boat and swam, not gracefully, until she could stand, then raced to Stick. She tried to revive him. J.B. had peeled her off her dead friend and wrapped her in his arms to keep her from going into hypothermia.

She didn't cry. She clung to him and said she should have seen it, she should have known her father was going after Stick. Olivia had seen it. Why hadn't she? But her father had stopped by to see his aunt almost every day of his life-he'd have told her things he didn't tell his cop daughter. And Olivia West had lived in Goose Harbor for a century-she was a keen observer of its residents, her friends, her neighbors, her family. She hadn't known it was Stick in the way Patrick and Zoe, two cops, would know it, but as a woman who'd lived a long life and who had wisdom and instincts.

It hadn't been a stranger, not to her, Patrick or Zoe.

It had been a friend. Zoe's mentor. A man who'd let himself slip to the point of no return.

From the way the state police treated their former colleague, J.B. could tell Zoe had been a damn good cop. They'd been proud of her. But there wasn't one of them, he knew, who thought she should come back.

And he hadn't even told them about the rose tattoo.

"Fire looks good," Bruce said.

When she turned, the flames glowed in her eyes, distant, almost a charcoal gray now, but she smiled. "Told you."

"You law enforcement types." Bruce sank back against the couch and groaned. "I get up this morning thinking I'm going to catch a few lobsters, and next thing my boat's a crime scene and I'm charging across the harbor with an armed and dangerous federal agent."

"You did okay out there today," J.B. said.

"Damn straight. You'd never have found anyone in that fog without me." But J.B. could see how shaken Bruce was over today's events. His teasing tone was for Zoe's benefit, to keep her from sinking too deep. "You two want me to get out of here?"

But it was too late. Christina burst in with food from the café, lobster rolls and fresh apples, an untouched wild blueberry pie. She'd obviously been crying. J.B. guessed it had something to do with Kyle Castellane. He wasn't a bad kid, and he'd been through a lot today, but he had more growing up to do. Christina knew who she was, what she wanted in life. Kyle wasn't ready for her.

"You West girls," Bruce said. "Tough as nails."

He helped set food on the table.

Zoe got stiffly to her feet and sat next to J.B. as she stared at her fire. "I've been over it a thousand times, and I don't know what else I could have done. I keep thinking if I hadn't gotten in the boat with him to begin with, or if I'd stopped him in the nature preserve-"

"You did stop him. You kept him from killing both Kyle and Shelton."

"Kyle helped."

"Good. It's about time the kid stood on his own two feet."

"He was afraid his father had killed Dad. Can you imagine? That was what the documentary was about- a cover so he could find out the truth. Stick must have suspected, and that's why he broke into the house and café. An FBI agent was sniffing around-Stick couldn't hide it anymore. He had to know what Kyle knew."

"He must have been worried Olivia managed to leave behind a clue."

"She wasn't confused. She was shocked and horrified and her mind wouldn't let her produce the name- but she knew who killed Dad. If I'd known it was someone from Goose Harbor, I'd never have left. I'd have kept digging, come hell or high water."

"Zoe, you're going to play this day over another thousand times. You know that, don't you?"

Her eyelids were drooping. She leaned against his shoulder, and by the time Bruce and Christina called them for dinner, she was asleep.

Betsy had finished packing her things. She carried her suitcases out to the afterdeck and realized she didn't like boats that much. For a day trip, maybe. Not to live in.

Luke was there in his rain gear, like he was a lobsterman or something. The rain dripped off his orange rain hat. He looked so sad. "I blew it with you, Betsy."

She nodded. "You did."

"I'm seeing someone after I get this legal mess sorted out and head south. I need help. I'll come back next summer. If you're still here, maybe-" He shrugged. "Who knows."

"Yeah. Who knows."

"It's a lot to ask you to forgive me."

"At least you can see you need forgiveness. That's a start."

His mouth had a grim set to it, but there was none of the usual defensive arrogance about him, no contempt, none of the mannerisms that he used to keep the world at bay. "Patrick West shouldn't have died. I could have done something."

"Maybe. You'll never know for sure."

"Kyle-I was so afraid he'd done something impulsive, stupid. No matter what I did, there was this nagging doubt. He's a young man with a lot of anger, creativity, drama."

"You wouldn't have been the first father duped."

"It was always at the back of my mind that he could have had a secret life, a problem with the law that he let get out of hand." Luke's voice was steady, as if he'd gone over this so many times in his mind that it was rote now. "He could have taken the Python out for target practice and accidentally shot Patrick. I didn't know. I didn't want to know."

"Stick manipulated all of you. He played you, Kyle, Teddy." Betsy shook her head in amazement. "It's all so insane."

"Kyle's abandoned his documentary. He-he had his questions about me, too." Luke touched her wet hair, a gentle, simple gesture that was so unlike him. "What are you going to do?"

She shrugged. "I don't know yet. Maybe I'll see you next summer, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

She carried her suitcases out onto the docks, slick with rain, the wind blowing hard as she walked out to her car. It was an awful night. She was soaked. But she drove up to the library, and nobody said anything when she went into the Olivia West Room and sat for a while.

J.B. went back to Washington to sort out his own life, and during the month he left her alone in Goose Harbor, he sent Zoe a rose-something every day. She had red roses, pink roses, yellow roses. One white rose. Rose notepaper. Rose powder. Rose bath oil. Rose hand lotion. Rose potpourri. Rose wrapping paper. Rosehip jam.