He watched her swallow and thought he saw a glimmer of a tear, but she turned and walked away.
The woman had everything. Brains, poise, a sense of decency. Money. A future. But she couldn’t be honest with herself.
Mattie headed up his front walk. He was no judge of character, but he could recognize another liar.
Grace lied to other people—about him, for one—but most of her lies, the worst of her lies, were to herself. Like now, he thought. She was lying to herself about just how scared she was—of him, of her own past.
Had she guessed what kind of trouble Linc was in?
Mattie told himself he didn’t give a damn. Grace Cooper didn’t care about him. Fine. He didn’t care about her, either.
He headed into his little rented house. It could fit into the Coopers’ kitchen—of their summer house. Mattie had never seen any of their other houses. Jason’s place in New York, Grace’s in Georgetown, Ellis’s in Alexandria. But as well-off as they were, Mattie didn’t envy them. He didn’t want to be a Cooper.
He wanted to be a photographer.
He wanted a fresh start.
But as he pushed open his front door, he felt a prick of guilt at how he was getting it.
CHAPTER 13
“Your husband had secrets.”
Abigail sat up in bed, fully awake after grabbing the phone on the second ring. “Who is this?”
“Just listen. Chris’s secrets got him killed. He wouldn’t talk to you. He wouldn’t talk to anyone.”
“Tell me more. Please.” She struggled to keep her tone firm but nonthreatening. “Don’t hang up.”
“He didn’t want to see you hurt.”
“Hurt how? Physically—or emotionally?”
There was no hesitation on the other end. “Both.”
“So he didn’t tell me these secrets?”
“He couldn’t. He loved you.”
She leaned back against her pillows and headboard, the early morning sun angling into her small bedroom through gaps in the curtains. The caller’s voice was disguised, as before. “How did you get my number here?” she asked. “It’s not listed.”
“Be careful who you trust while you’re in Maine.”
“Are you here? Are you watching me?”
“You have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. That’s all.”
“Why would anyone else get hurt? What’s going on? I need more information.”
“Your husband was an FBI agent and a Mainer. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t—I haven’t. Why don’t we meet? Just the two of us—”
The caller cut her off with a short, sarcastic laugh. “I don’t think so, Detective.”
Click.
Abigail glanced at her bedside clock. Five-oh-nine. She hung up, then picked up again and dialed Lou Beeler’s home number. He answered on the first ring. She tried smiling into the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’re already on your second cup of coffee—”
“Third,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I had another call,” she said, and told him.
When she finished, Lou sighed. “I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll collect Chief Alden on my way. Want me to bring doughnuts?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet. See you soon.”
Abigail was shivering by the time she climbed out of bed. She slept in the smallest of the three bedrooms. The largest had been Chris’s grandfather’s room, the second largest Chris’s room. She’d cleaned out all their belongings and painted the furniture, bought new rugs and lamps and picked out inexpensive artwork, but the rooms still had the feel of the Browning men. She let her renters use them.
Moving quickly, Abigail showered, the hot streams of water calling up sensations she didn’t want to think about, of Owen’s hands on her, his mouth—her reaction. They hadn’t gone beyond their kiss last night. A bit more than a kiss, really, she thought. But afterward they’d had wine. Talked. He’d walked with her back to her house, then left with just a good-night, as if he, too, knew that was enough. Their attraction to each other was out on the table. That was plenty to get used to at least for now. She’d never brought a man here. It’d never seemed right. Too many ghosts in Maine. Too many memories. Easier, she thought, just to keep that part of herself out of reach.
Owen was different. He’d known Chris forever, and she didn’t have to explain to him what had happened, how he’d died, how she’d felt in those awful days.
And in the years since, he’d never patronized her because of her situation. He’d experienced tragedy himself, and he’d seen countless others who’d had to find a way to carry on after the worst kind of loss—babies, young children, entire families, entire communities.
Abigail switched off the water and grabbed a towel, rubbed herself dry. Never mind the rest of it, she thought. She’d responded to Owen for purely physical reasons. He felt good. The taste of him, the heat of his skin.
He’s bored.