Not a consistent one, Abigail thought, picturing the beer cans. Unless they weren’t Mattie’s. She had no real evidence they were. “He’s still living in the same place?”
“He rents a house around the corner from Doyle Alden. That’s how he got caught drinking and driving—Doyle saw him scream past his house. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Jason smiled, but his eyes remained cool. “Always curious, aren’t you, Abigail?”
“It’s a March family trait.”
The reminder of her father obviously didn’t sit well with Jason Cooper. “I suppose it is. If you won’t come in—”
“No, thanks. I should get back. Nice to see you.”
“Likewise.”
Before she could get out another word, he was walking onto the porch, snapping his fingers at his little dog.
When she arrived at her house, Abigail pulled on shorts, a T-shirt and her good running shoes and jogged up the private drive and out onto the main road, finding her pace, telling herself she needed stay in shape. But she could feel her restlessness building into frustration, questions and threads of conversations, new possibilities, coming at her all at once.
And memories. They jumped at her with every stride—and not just her own memories, of her short-lived marriage, of her widowhood, filled with seven years of prodding and pushing for answers to her husband’s unsolved murder. Chris’s memories came at her, too. The stories he’d told of his childhood on the island that had taken shape in her mind over the years, until they were as real to her as the images of her own past.
Chris and Doyle Alden…Mattie Young…the three of them going off on a lobster boat with Chris’s grandfather, the old man teaching them what he knew about tides, currents, hidden dangers, good stewardship of the land and sea that had sustained their families for generations.
Abigail could picture them on Will Browning’s lobster boat when they’d realized a girl was in the water. Doe Garrison, a wealthy summer resident. A pretty girl, by all accounts. Happy. A nature lover like her great-grandfather.
The local boys were just teenagers themselves. At seventeen, Mattie was the oldest. Doyle, fifteen. Chris was fourteen, like Doe.
They’d pulled her out of the water, but it was too late.
“I could see her brother up on the cliffs watching us try to save her. I’ll never forget his face, Abigail. Never.”
Will Browning raced to the harbor, an ambulance waiting.
“The Garrisons and the Coopers were on the dock. Polly Garrison, Doe’s parents, Owen. They were in shock. They knew that she was gone. Jason Cooper, Ellis. They tried to stay out of the way. But Grace—she was thirteen years old, and her best friend had just drowned.”
As she maintained her steady pace, Abigail pictured the horror of that beautiful summer afternoon and wondered how much of it Owen remembered.
Every second, probably.
She could understand how he could keep coming to Maine, build a house a few hundred yards from where his sister had drowned. It wasn’t just out of a stubborn need to appreciate what Doe had loved but out of a knowledge that, in order to be whole, he had to embrace that loss and make it a part of him, not run from it, cut it out of him or drag it behind him.
But was she really thinking about Owen’s behavior…or her own? What, really, did she understand about Owen Garrison?
When she trotted back up her driveway, Abigail was almost relieved to find a black government car and a well-dressed, straight-backed man and woman knocking on her front door.
FBI agents.
They introduced themselves as Special Agent Ray Capozza and Special Agent Mary Steele and declined Abigail’s invitation to go inside, instead joining her on the driveway. Capozza, a compact, no-nonsense man, insisted on showing her his credentials. “We’re here on routine business, Mrs. Browning.”
“You’re running a background check on Grace Cooper, yes, I know. And, please, call me Abigail. Did my father tell you I was here?”
“No.” Capozza wasn’t going any further.
Steele, a sharp-featured brunette who looked as if she expected a bear to jump out of the trees, nodded vaguely out toward the water. “Pretty spot. I can see now why you hung on to this place. Your husband—” She broke off, looking awkward, then plunged ahead. “We’re aware of what happened to him, Mrs. Browning—Abigail. No one’s forgotten. No one will forget.”
Capozza nodded in agreement, even if he wasn’t ready to be that frank. “We’re not here to investigate his murder, but we’re in close touch with Maine CID. If we learn anything new, we’ll let them know.”
“Of course. Thanks.” A courtesy call, Abigail realized. That was what this visit was. “Thanks for stopping by.”