“I’m not telling Linc to leave the island.” Grace wrapped her long, baggy sweater more tightly around her, although she wasn’t cold. “I can’t do that. I won’t do it.”
Her father inhaled audibly, one of his tricks to show his displeasure. It was a cue. They were all supposed to understand what he was thinking and feeling without him actually having to say so. “Your brother listens to you.”
“That’s why I’m not telling him. I can’t ask him to leave because of me.”
Ellis, in one of his country-squire outfits, broke off a piece of his scone but didn’t eat it. None of them had eaten much. He’d picked up the scones in Northeast Harbor and arrived while they were still warm. He said, “Whatever Linc’s hiding could cost you this appointment.”
His tone was patient, not at all condescending. Grace abandoned her scone. “He’s not going to cost me anything. If the appointment gets pulled, it will be because of me and who I am—not because of my brother.”
“But you don’t deny he’s hiding something,” Ellis asked quietly. “Do you know what it is?”
Her father, an elegant man, always composed, studied her as he and her uncle awaited her answer. At that moment, she hated them both. Her most trusted confidants, her biggest supporters. She could turn to them with anything—but not, she thought, this. Not Linc. They would sacrifice him to save her appointment. They wouldn’t believe they were hurting him because they were convinced he’d never amount to anything, anyway.
What would they do if they knew she’d slept with Mattie Young?
What would they do if they knew she’d lied to the local police, the Maine State Police, the FBI—herself?
“I have no idea what Linc’s hiding,” she said, finally. “He’s gone to see Owen.”
“Owen.” Her father grimaced, pushing aside his plate. “He’s part of the problem. I admit that I liked the idea of him taking Linc under his wing at first. Now, I don’t know. Linc needs baby steps. Owen’s not a man for baby steps. As much as I respect him, he must see that Linc isn’t seriously interested in search-and-rescue.”
Grace could feel herself growing warm at her father’s almost clinical way of discussing her brother. “He’s getting some positive attention from Owen. That can’t be a bad thing.”
“Linc gets plenty of attention from everyone. Including me.”
Grace had to stop herself from snorting in disbelief. Did he actually believe he gave Linc any attention at all? She lifted her napkin off her lap and placed it next to her plate. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, getting up from the table.
She ripped open the screen door and pounded down the stone steps, picking up her pace as she ran across the lawn to the water’s edge. Sprawling beach roses formed a thick border between the yard and the shoreline, the morning dew glistening on their pink blossoms.
As she calmed herself, she watched a lone kayaker out on the water. How long had it been since she’d kayaked? She’d been so wrapped up in her work for so long. She’d hoped some time in Maine with her family would be a good break, that she’d have a chance, finally, to do things just for fun—never mind the damn background check.
She became aware of her uncle behind her. “I know what you and my father are doing,” she said. “You’re not worried about Linc. I’m not even sure you’re worried about me. You’re worried about Abigail Browning. Bad enough for the FBI to be right here on the island, digging into our lives. But Abigail—having her know our dirty little secrets…”
“Grace, Grace.” Ellis stood next to her, leaning on his walking stick. He didn’t look at his niece but out at the sound, the kayaker, the seagulls, the mountains, as if he were trying to absorb their beauty through his skin. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t care about Abigail or the FBI. Neither does your father. We’re worried about you. About what’s best for you.”
She blinked back tears. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Listen to me.” He touched her elbow through her heavy cable sweater, too warm for the conditions. “Please, Grace. Listen carefully.”
He waited for her reaction. She nodded. “All right. I’m listening.”
“Abigail only cares about finding her husband’s killer. Her only interest in any of us is related to that desire—that commitment. She wants closure.”
“And justice. Don’t you think she also wants justice?”
Ellis seemed untroubled by her sharp tone. “Right now, I would say justice isn’t on the top of her list of concerns. I’ve no doubt she tells herself it is. Do you believe it’s any coincidence this drama with Mattie is going on this week? It’s the seventh anniversary—”
“I know what week it is.”
“Yes,” he said, without inflection. “I know you do. Grace, Abigail is stirring up people, and she’s doing it on purpose. You saw her last night at the house, when she realized Mattie had been in my garden shed. She has no boundaries.”