“Doyle,” Owen said, “nobody wanted the boys to see those pictures. I’ve had the image of my sister burned into my brain for twenty-five years—of Chris for seven years. I’d have done anything to keep Sean and Ian from having to see that. We all would have.”
All the air seemed to go out of the chief of police. He swore under his breath, but quickly pulled himself together, pointing a finger at Abigail. “You need to remember what your role here is and what it isn’t. Understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Knock out all the walls in this whole damn house, Abigail. Paint. Decorate. If we learn anything about the phone calls and the pictures, we’ll let you know.”
Abigail gave him a cheeky smile. “Lou told me the same thing.”
Doyle managed a grudging smile back at her. “Smart guy, that Lou.”
Doyle climbed into his car, the window down, mosquitoes thick in the cool, salt-tinged air. Owen had followed his friend outside and could feel Doyle’s frustration and resentment—his powerlessness. “Let me know if you want me to talk to the boys about what happened.”
“Some days, I swear—” Doyle shoved the key into the ignition with more force than was necessary. “I swear Katie and I should just pack up the boys and get off this damn rock. I should find another line of work.”
“Your work didn’t cause what happened today.”
“I’m not talking about today.”
Owen knew he wasn’t. “You’re a small-town cop, Doyle. You’re good at what you do. You enjoy it. You just never thought you’d have to investigate the murder of your best friend.”
“You’d think after seven years…”
“What, that we’d all have forgotten? I’d think after seven years we’d be itchy and irritated that Chris’s murder was still unsolved, and worried that other people might be at risk.”
Doyle gripped the wheel, shaking his head. “We’re never going to find the killer. That’s the truth, Owen. Abigail knows it. She’s trying to create leads where there are none. For all we know, she planted those pictures herself. She’s been collecting her own stash of evidence for years. She’s—” He eased off the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, starting the engine. “I’ve said too much.”
“Forget it.”
But Doyle looked at him through the open window. “She’s not going to tell you anything she doesn’t want to tell you. She’s got a tight lid on herself. Never mind those dark eyes, Owen, my friend.”
He smiled with feigned innocence. “What dark eyes?”
When he returned to Abigail’s kitchen, she had dumped lobster bisque into an ancient saucepan and had it simmering on the stove. “Big confession,” she said. “I’ve never cooked my own lobster. Then again, I’ve never claimed to be a real Mainer. I just have a house here.” She peered into the saucepan. “I think there’s enough butter in there to give us six heart attacks apiece.”
Owen stood behind her and peered over her shoulder as she stirred the bisque with a wooden spoon. “I can’t remember the first time I was in this house. I must have been a toddler. Not much has changed. Chris’s grandfather used to heat up chowder in this same pan.”
“I wish I’d had a chance to know him better. He died nine months after Chris and I met.”
“He was a great guy. Salt of the earth. I used to come over here all the time before my sister drowned. After that—” He eased his arms around her waist, wanting to feel her warmth as much as to provide some kind of reassurance for her. “It wasn’t easy for my family to be here.”
“But you came back.”
“After I was on my own, yes. Chris was off to school by then. I’d come over here and sit on the back porch with his grandfather, and he’d tell me stories about lobstering and living out here. He was laconic—it took some doing to get him going. Once he did, he was mesmerizing.”
“That’s what I remember about him. Chris was like that, too. He didn’t tell me everything.” She stared at the pinkish bisque, the smell of lobster, butter and sherry filling the air as the pot heated. “I think he believed there’d be time for all that. Time to fill in the gaps. Tell me his secrets.”
Her matter-of-fact tone only added to the intensity of her words. Owen kept his arms around her. She sank her weight into him. He tried to picture all the horrific images that were seared into her brain, not only of her husband’s bloodied body on the rocks, but of other murder scenes, other grieving loved ones.
“The police will talk to Ellis Cooper and anyone up at his house,” Abigail said. “Anyone who might have been out here today and seen something.”
“If the pictures were Mattie’s doing, people wouldn’t necessarily notice him. He’s a fixture around here. Part of the landscape.”
She nodded. “Fair point. They’ll interview Jason and Grace, too. Not great timing for her, but right now, as far as we know, no crime’s been committed.”
She continued to speak in that same deliberate, calm tone. Owen could feel the heat of her skin under his hands and suspected that, underneath that cool exterior, Abigail Browning was churning.
“Mattie took those pictures, Owen,” she said.