Owen gave the boy a quick smile. “But I won’t be if I can’t get back here before your dad arrives.”
Neither boy laughed, and Ian, sucking in a succession of shallow breaths, said, “What about Abigail? Is she all right?”
“She’s probably out for a hike or running errands.”
Ian clutched Owen’s hand. “Go find her!”
“We can go with you,” Sean said.
Owen shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. Abigail will be all right. She’s a police officer like your dad.”
Footsteps sounded out on the deck, and the two boys jumped, even as Owen moved between them and the door.
“Owen?” Abigail’s voice. “It’s me—everything okay here?”
Ian clutched his heart in a display of drama and slumped in relief. “She’s okay.”
Owen smiled at him. “Told you.”
Sean eased down off the stool and ran to the door. “Abigail! My dad’s on the way. Someone left Owen pictures of dead people.”
When she pushed open the door and entered the cool house, Owen noticed the gun on her waist, her focused, cop-mode look as she frowned at him. “Dead people? Owen, what’s going on?”
He nodded to the plastic sleeve of pictures on his kitchen counter and tried to explain, without further alarming Sean and Ian, what had happened. Abigail listened without interruption. When he finished, Owen noticed that her cheeks had drained of any color. “Abigail? Did you come back to the same pictures?”
“Different ones,” she said. “They were inside my front door. Three shots taken at Ellis Cooper’s house the day Chris was killed.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No. No one. I checked around outside and walked over here. No sign of anyone.”
Mattie, in other words.
“Lou Beeler’s on his way.” She made an effort to smile at the two boys. “Your dad, too.”
Owen sensed her restlessness. “Where are the pictures that were left for you?”
“On my kitchen counter.” Her eyes, dark and intense, leveled on him. “There’s something I need to do. Tell Lou and Doyle I’ll be right back.”
“You’re going to confront Mattie.”
“Just because the pictures are disturbing doesn’t make it against the law to leave them on our doorsteps.”
“You know damn well the police will investigate.”
But she ignored him, saying goodbye to the boys before she slipped back out to the deck, barely making a sound as she headed back across the rocks.
Owen swore under his breath. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t leave Sean and Ian, and he sure as hell couldn’t take them with him and go after Abigail.
“Owen?” Ian slipped a cool hand into his. “I’m scared.”
He wanted to tell the boys there was nothing to be scared of, but someone had just left him a picture of his drowned sister and a picture of a terrified, grief-stricken widow. How could he say, with any degree of confidence, there was no reason to be afraid?
“Hey, guys,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get a fire going.”
Abigail parked in front of Mattie’s house, walked up to his front door and rang the doorbell, just the way she was supposed to. It was after four. He would have knocked off work by now. She noticed bent vertical blinds hanging in a picture window of the small, one-story bungalow. He hadn’t planted flowers in his own yard.
When the door didn’t open, she pounded on it, its white paint chipped and yellowed. “Mattie, it’s Abigail. Abigail Browning. I’d like to talk to you.”
She waited two beats. Still no answer. She tried the knob.
The door was unlocked.
“Mattie.”
She called him again as she pushed open the door. Before entering, she heard the clatter of a bicycle behind her on the walk and turned, sighing at Mattie. “There you are. Don’t you lock your doors?”
“What for? I don’t have anything worth stealing.” He waved a hand at her, showing no indication of surprise or irritation at her visit. “Go ahead. Go inside if you want.”
“Thank you, I will.”
She stepped into a simply furnished living room, surprisingly neat and clean given Mattie’s general appearance. He followed her in and flopped down onto the couch. “Okay. What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to you about your photography.”
“My photography? Why?”
“I was at a gallery in Bar Harbor today. The owner, a man named Walt—”
“Oh, yeah.” Mattie grinned, putting his feet up on a coffee table. “Good old Walt. He’s full of shit, isn’t he? Pompous ass.”
“He thinks you’re very talented.”
“See what I mean?”
“Where do you keep the negatives of the pictures you’ve taken?”
“I burned them.”
Abigail wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. “When?”
“One night when I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself. Well.” He gave a fake laugh, no hint of self-deprecation. “I guess that describes a lot of nights. It was sometime after Chris was killed. I was living in Bar Harbor—it feels like civilization compared to living out here.”
“Did you destroy all your negatives?”