“Not me,” Mattie said. “I’m going home.”
“How?” Abigail asked him. “Are you going to ride your bike in the dark?”
“Yeah. I do it all the time. You don’t like it, call Doyle. I’ll tell him you threatened to shoot me.”
She sighed. “I didn’t threaten to shoot you, Mattie.”
“You’re armed-”
“Damn right I’m armed. Were you spying on me?”
“Why would I spy on you?”
“That’s not an answer. You were out here Sunday night-before I got here. Did you know I was on my way?”
“Of course not. How would I?”
Abigail paused for a half beat. “You know you can’t drink safely, don’t you?”
Mattie didn’t answer. Neither of them, Owen noticed, had started back toward his deck, his warm fire, a chance to talk.
“Get yourself to a meeting,” Abigail said. “No more jaunts out here in the dark with a six-pack. Right, Mattie? Makes sense?”
“Go fuck yourself, Abigail. You’re not a detective here.”
Mattie spun around and marched out to Owen’s driveway, oblivious to the dark.
“Where’s your bike?” Abigail called.
“Up on the road. Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you hide it?”
“Go to hell.”
“At least your language is improving. If you hid your bike-”
“I’m not hiding anything.” He stopped abruptly, turning back to her. “I just don’t bow down to you. I knew Chris’s parents. I knew his grandfather. I knew them before you were even born. You think you’re the only one who cares about what happened to Chris? You think you’re the only one who wants his killer found?”
“Mattie,” Owen said. “That’s enough. Go home. Get some rest.”
“Sleep it off, you mean? I’m not drunk.”
But he tripped as he reached the driveway, swearing, then held up one hand, his middle finger clearly visible in the light from the house. He continued on around a bend in the driveway, disappearing into the blackness.
Abigail had gone silent. Owen raised his flashlight to her, catching the hard set of her mouth. She had on a sweatshirt, but she had to be cold.
“Come inside,” he said. “Warm up.”
“Thanks.” She climbed up on the deck, glancing up the driveway. “He has a point. You all knew Chris longer than I did.”
“He was just trying to get under your skin.”
“Maybe. Chris didn’t make excuses for him, but he didn’t judge him, either, even after he knew he had to detach from him. He believed in Mattie. He has such talent.”
“Talent’s not a lot of use if you don’t make something of it.”
“Chris always said Mattie never had a sense of his own limitations. One of those good thing, bad thing deals. The good thing-it allowed him to take risks with his photography. The bad thing-he doesn’t save money, he doesn’t set realistic goals. He basically thinks the rules don’t apply to him.”
“That’s part of why he keeps drinking.”
“Alcoholics Anonymous is for other people. Not for him.” She sighed. “It’s such a difficult disease. If he could make that breakthrough-”
“Only he can. No one else can do it for him.”
“I said pretty much the same thing to Chris. But he knew without me having to tell him. We all know.”
Owen could feel the cold now. He’d shot outside in his T-shirt. “Mattie’s used Chris’s death as an excuse not to deal with his problems.”
“Maybe.” Abigail’s expression hardened again. “But Mattie has had his own agenda long before Chris was killed.”
Owen stepped closer to her, flicking a fat mosquito off her forehead.
She waved at one in front of her. “I should have put on bug spray.”
She followed him inside. She wasn’t winded from chasing Mattie out on the rocks in the dark. She was in good shape. As a cop, she would need to be, but she also seemed to enjoy physical activity-a thought that twisted itself into an image that Owen suspected she’d shoot him for having in his head.
“I have a bottle of Chianti I’ve been saving.”
“Saving for what?”
“Now, I guess. I’ve had a long year, and I don’t like to drink alone.”
She smiled, sitting on a chair in front of the woodstove. “Open it up, then. What did you do today?”
“Linc Cooper stopped by. He wants me to teach him everything I know in two weeks or less.” He grabbed a wine bottle off the rack in his kitchen. “I remember that feeling. Linc’s got a big set of issues. He thinks learning to jump out of a helicopter is going to help solve them.”
“Did it help you?”
He opened the wine. “I had a different set of issues.”
The fire had gotten hotter than he’d meant it to, Abigail’s cheeks reddening in the warmth. The hard look was gone now, her dark curls softly framing her face. “You’ve got white dust in your hair,” Owen said, setting two glasses on the counter and pouring the wine.
“I’ve been knocking out walls.”
“Cathartic?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it is. It’s just one of those things that needs to be done.”
“Did you stake out Mattie just now, or did you hear him and investigate?” Owen walked over to her with the two glasses and handed her one. “I’m guessing you laid in wait for him.”
“You’re guessing wrong. I was curious, and just took a walk over there-”
“In the dark.”
“Correct.”
“Without a flashlight?”
“I didn’t need one, really, out in the open on the rocks, with the stars and the moonlight. Once my eyes adjusted, I was fine. There was one short stretch of woods that was a little tricky.”
Owen sat on the chair opposite her. “And a flashlight would have warned Mattie you were on the way.”
She tasted the wine. “So it would have.”
“Are you ever off?”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean, ‘off’? Crazy? Out of control?”
“I mean, do you ever turn off your inner detective?”
“Ah. That ‘off.’ I have no jurisdiction here. Why?”
“I’d just like to know when I’m talking to Abigail, my pretty dark-eyed neighbor, and when I’m talking to Detective Browning, my pretty dark-eyed cop neighbor.”
“They’re one and the same.” She drank more of her wine. “So, how did Linc do on your hike?”
“Fine. He’s in better shape than he thinks he is. He asked about you-why you’re here, that sort of thing.”
“That’s understandable. Whenever I’m here people get stirred up. I remind them of a lot of unanswered questions. And Linc.” She shifted, staring at the fire. “Chris’s death was hard on him. He was just thirteen. He idolized Chris.”
“I remember.”
“Think you can help him?”
“Traipsing Linc Cooper up and down mountains wasn’t exactly what I had planned for the summer.”
“What did you have planned?”
Her voice held none of the suspicion and frustration it had when she was out on the rocks with Mattie, and her eyes shone in the glow of the orange flames. Owen could see the plaster dust on her hands, in her hair, and thought of her alone in her dead husband’s house, knocking out walls.
“I don’t know what I had planned,” he said.
“That could be just what you need-to have a few weeks with no plan.”
He smiled. “My grandmother would say that describes my whole life. She says I’m a tumbleweed at heart.”
“Maybe that’s why you like Maine. All the granite around here isn’t going anywhere. It gives you a sense of permanence that you don’t have in your life right now.”
“So philosophical.”
She laughed. “Now you’re scaring me.” She got to her feet, took another sip of the Chianti before setting the glass down on a side table. “I don’t
want to keep you. Thanks for the wine.”
Something about his tone-his expression, whatever-had spooked her, made her self-conscious, aware. Owen rose, setting his wineglass next to hers. “Linc thinks you’re going to end up selling your place, too. I told him it wouldn’t feel right not having a Browning out on these rocks.”
“The real Brownings are all gone now. Too many of them died young. Chris, his parents. God knows how many ancestors. I swear his grandfather lived to ninety-five just to spite the odds.”
Owen touched a finger to her jaw. He felt the heat of the fire on one side of him and, on the other side, the cool night air coming through the partially open door. Her skin was warm, soft. “Abigail.”
She took an audible breath. “I’ll never have that kind of love again. A first love. I know that.” She seemed to make herself look at him, her gaze clear, unwavering. “But don’t think I haven’t loved again. Or that I can’t.”
“What about falling in love again?”
“I haven’t-not in the way you mean. I have a good life. I have wonderful friends and colleagues, a great family, rewarding work. That’s a lot.”
“Enough?”
“I don’t live in the past, if that’s what you mean. I want answers to Chris’s death. I want justice for him. But that’s not the only thing that gets me up in the morning.”
With the tip of his finger, Owen traced the outline of her mouth, saw her shut her eyes for a split second longer than a normal blink, telling him she wasn’t unaffected by his touch.
“What about you?” she asked. “You haven’t married.”
“Not yet, no.”
“Then it’s something you think about-something you want.”
But he took a step closer to her, easing his hand behind her neck, breaking her concentration. He couldn’t pinpoint when he’d first become attracted to her. Maybe he’d always been attracted to her, but she’d seemed so untouchable, so remote. Chris Browning’s widow. But over the years-a glimpse here and there on the rocks, a friendly chat from time to time when they’d run into each other on a walk, at the hardware store, in the post office. He’d never expected to act on his attraction. And, yet, here he was.
His mouth found hers for a whisper of a kiss, but he knew he was holding back-he knew he had to put a hard brake on how far he wanted to go with her. She sank the fingers of one hand into his upper arm, not to balance herself, he realized, but to communicate that he’d gotten to her. Her lips opened to the kiss, and he responded, his tongue mingling with hers, her grasp on his arm tightening.
He lowered his arms around her middle and lifted her slightly off her feet, drawing her against him. How easy it would be to slide her pants over her slim hips and take her right here, in front of the fire.
Slipping his hands inside her waistband, he splayed his fingers against her firm, warm flesh.
“Damn, Owen,” she said, taking her mouth from his and throwing her arms around his neck. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes were shining, and under her shirt, her nipples were clearly visible. She pressed herself against him and found his mouth again. “Damn.”
“Tell me what you want.” He slid his hands deeper into her shorts, the flesh hotter, wetter. How had they come this far, this fast? One quick move on his part, and she’d be fully exposed. “Tell me, Abigail.”
She smiled. “I think it’s obvious what we both want.” She settled her feet back onto the floor and dropped her arms from his neck. “You do like to live dangerously, don’t you?”
“And you don’t?”
“Well…” She seemed to realize she had nowhere to go with that one. “That’s not the point. Or maybe it is.”
But they both knew when to give in to an impulse, and this wasn’t the time-if only, Owen thought, because they both also knew it was more than an impulse. Something real was going on between them and had been for a long time.
He stepped back from her. “Another glass of wine?”
She smiled. “That would be wonderful.”
Linc heard the clatter of a bicycle on the driveway outside, in the dark, and knew it was Mattie Young.
Who else would it be?
His father looked up from his book and frowned. “What was that?”
“I think it’s one of my friends,” Linc said, already on his feet. They were in the front den, pretending they were a normal family. Him, his father, his sister. “We’re supposed to make arrangements to hike the Bubbles tomorrow.”
“Oh. Wonderful.”
Linc had known his father would like that one. The thought of his one-and-only son doing something physical, besides playing video games, would appeal to him. He wouldn’t risk inadvertently dissuading Linc by interfering-which Linc counted on. He’d seen how his father had reacted when he’d told him about hiking with Owen. The restrained approval, as if going overboard would turn Linc right back to being a couch potato.
Grace, however, quietly put down the book she was reading and followed her brother onto the front porch. “Linc, it’s Mattie, isn’t it?”
“I think so. I suspect he’s drunk.”
“My God. I’d hoped he’d stopped for good this time.” She kept her voice to a whisper and showed no sign of wanting to see Mattie herself. “Please, do what you can to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else.”
“Like you, Grace?”
Even in the dim light, he could see her flush. “The FBI’s here on the island, checking up on me, my past. We all know that. But that’s not what I was thinking-”
“I know it wasn’t. I’m sorry.” He nodded in the direction of the front door. “Go back in. Keep Dad occupied. He’s not going to give Mattie many more chances.”
Linc waited a few seconds to give Grace a chance to get back inside, then took the porch steps in two leaps and ran out to the driveway.
Mattie kicked his bike. “Fucking piece of shit.”
“Mind your language here,” Linc said. “You know what my father’s like.”
“He swears. I’ve heard him.”
“He doesn’t always live by the same rules he expects the rest of us to live by.”
“Especially the hired help?” Mattie half tripped over the bike, standing close to Linc, his eyes wild, furious. But he wasn’t drunk. “I want my money.”
“Not here-”
“All of it. Every goddamn dime.”
“Mattie, I can’t.”
“Linc, you can. Your daddy has that much stuffed in his mattress. Get it, before I demand another ten.”
Linc’s stomach rolled over. He thought he’d throw up right there on the driveway, but saw the futility of arguing with Mattie. He just wanted to get rid of him without attracting his father’s attention. “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me a couple days?”
“Tomorrow.”
Linc nodded. “Okay. No promises, though-”
“Get. Me. My. Money.”
“I will.”
Mattie sucked in a breath, mollified, then coughed, half sobbing. “I’ll do good with it. I’m getting back into my photography. I don’t care if you think I’m scum. People will see the real me.”
The real Mattie? Linc checked his disgust. “I hope so, Mattie.”
“You wait. You wait and see.”
“I will. Everyone’s always said you have an incredible talent for photography.”
“It’s not just talent. It’s skill. There’s a lot more to photography than just pointing a camera and pressing a button.”
“You know more about it than I do.”
“Damn right.”
For a moment, Linc almost felt sorry for Mattie-wanted him to get back on his feet. The guy who was blackmailing him. “Look, why don’t I give you a ride back to your house? It’s dark as hell out here, and it’s cold-”
Mattie shook his head. “I’ll ride my damn bike. When I get my license back-” He sniffled, picking up the bike. “No more, you understand? No more. I’ll show everyone.”
After two tries, Mattie got his bike rolling, and he pedaled smoothly off into the night. Linc walked out to the end of the driveway and shut and locked the security gate, knowing it was what his father would expect. And he needed the time to pull himself together.
The backs of his legs ached from hiking with Owen. He had to be crazy to think he could do search-and-rescue-he wasn’t in Owen’s league. The guy climbed up mountains as if he was on a stroll. He was strong, sure-footed, in top shape.
His father was right, Linc thought. Everyone was right. He was soft.
And now he was in serious trouble, too. He was letting Mattie blackmail him and had just come down close to rooting for the guy.
He started back down the dark driveway, wishing he’d just trip and break his neck and die on the spot. He was useless. Worse than useless. He was an albatross around his family’s neck.
He brushed at his tears with his forearm.
Mattie had no honor, no boundaries, no rational thought process. He was unreliable, contradictory, volatile. Linc could let himself get sucked into Mattie’s twisted thinking. He couldn’t trust him.
Linc swallowed a sob. Where was he going to get nine thousand dollars by tomorrow-hell, by next week, even? What would Mattie do if he didn’t come up with the money?
Tears ran down his face. What he couldn’t stand, far more than the fear of not getting Mattie the money, was the thought that anyone-even that drunk-would think he’d killed Chris Browning.
But why shouldn’t they think it?
Chris is dead because of you.
Stumbling, Linc cut past the garage and across the yard, knowing he had to compose himself before he saw his father and sister.
He could see the silhouette of the mountains across the sound, against the starlit sky. “I got you killed, Chris,” he whispered. “Please forgive me. Please.”
Owen Garrison had found a way to thrive in spite of the guilt he had to feel over his sister’s death. But Linc didn’t have Owen’s strength.
“Linc?” His sister walked down from the stone terrace, casting a long, black shadow under the night sky. “Is everything okay? Dad’s getting worried.”
“Everything’s fine. I was just on my way in.”
She stood next to him. “Mattie?”
The Widow Page 9
