“You should mind your own damn business.”
Her half-faked irritation only further confirmed whatever he was thinking—and she had a fair idea of what it was. His grin broadened. “So it’s not just the weird shit happening that’s keeping you up here.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go out to see what he wants.”
“Am I in your way, Detective?”
“Bob.”
“Don’t you want me to meet your neighbor? I’ve seen him a couple times when I’ve been up here, but he’s usually off to a disaster. We’ve never officially met.”
“You don’t need to meet now.”
“Abigail? Hell—are you sleeping with this guy?”
“Bob.”
“You get involved with Batman, and everything changes. You know that, right?”
He wasn’t letting her go to Owen without him. “You’re a pain in the neck, Bob. You know that, right?”
He ignored her. “You get involved with a guy like Scoop, nothing changes. You’re both a couple of working stiffs, never mind who your father is. You rent out one of your apartments, put his TV set and stereo system in with your IKEA stuff, and that’s it. You’re done. With Owen Garrison—” Bob squinted out at the rocks. “Do you know who the Garrisons are? Who he is?”
“Yes, Bob, I know who the Garrisons are, and I know who Owen is. And why come up with Scoop for your hypothetical? Why not that cute guy in narcotics?”
“Abigail, the Garrisons used to own this island.”
“Not all of it.”
“The half the Rockefellers didn’t own.”
“His grandmother grew up dirt-poor in Texas. She kept chickens up here. She wanted to keep pigs, but her husband—”
“The guy throws himself into the mouth of danger every chance he gets.”
Maybe that described why he made love to her, she thought. He’d gotten turned on by the risk of having a relationship with her. The forbidden woman. But she found herself smiling at the thought.
As Owen crossed her narrow strip of yard, Bob elbowed her, still not letting her get past him in the doorway. “He’s even better-looking than that guy in narcotics.”
Owen trotted up the porch steps. Abigail could have smacked Bob for successfully stalling her long enough to make sure she didn’t get a word with Owen alone first.
Bob opened up the door as if he owned the place, and Abigail, with no other real option, stepped back out of the way and made polite introductions. She didn’t explain why Bob was there. She didn’t ask why Owen was there.
Owen, casually dressed, as good-looking as ever, handed her a small paper bag. “You left these at my house.”
She gave him a questioning look.
“Your socks.”
Avoiding Bob, Abigail snatched the paper bag and dumped it on a chair. “Thanks.”
“Doyle stopped by,” Owen said. “They found Mattie’s bike in the woods. It was hidden off a hiking trail behind Ellis’s place. No sign of him. Lou Beeler asked Doyle to let you know, and Doyle asked me—”
Bob snorted. “Sounds like no one wants to talk to you, Abigail.”
“Everyone’s busy.” She sighed, then addressed Owen. “Bob’s humor takes some getting used to. I should get rolling. I want to help search for Mattie.” She turned, motioning at her mostly gutted room. “Never mind that everyone would rather I stay here and work on my walls.” She frowned, but her mind had gone elsewhere. “What’s that?”
Before either man could respond, Abigail was across the room, kneeling on the floor, picking up a tiny white ball. She held it up in the light. “It’s a pearl.”
Bob was there instantly, and she placed the pearl into his big hands.
“How did the crime scene guys miss this yesterday?” Bob asked.
“We all missed it. We weren’t looking for pearls.”
“The wall,” Owen said.
He didn’t need to explain further. They all recognized it as the same wall that she and Chris had worked on the morning before she was attacked and robbed.
Abigail, still on her knees, leaned into the gutted portion and reached down inside the wall, lowering her arm as far as she could, wiggling her fingers for any more pearls. “That pearl didn’t jump out onto the floor by itself,” she said, touching something soft and dry with her fingers. “Gross. I think I hit mouse pooh.”
Neither man smiled at her attempt at humor. She dug through a ball of fuzzy gunk of some kind, scraping her already bloodied arm on a two-by-six.
“Let me do that,” Bob said.
“Your arm’s too big. Owen’s, too.”
She scooped up a brown-and-gray heap and dumped it onto the floor.
Another pearl, covered in dust, rolled out.
And, in the middle of the fuzz, Abigail saw her grandmother’s cameo pendant.
She dropped back onto her heels, her arm stinging, her cut leg aching. “My necklace was in the wall all this time. And Mattie—” She took in a breath, calming herself. “That bastard knew.”