Carla Neggers - The Widow

She swallowed. “I should talk to my father, shouldn’t I?”

“You should always talk to your father.” He cleared his throat and nodded to Bob. “Good to meet you, finally.”

“You, too, Lieutenant,” Bob said, stepping aside for Lou to pass him.

After Lou headed outside to meet more arriving officers, Abigail frowned at O’Reilly. “‘Finally?’ What does that mean? Have you two talked behind my back more than I think you have?”

“Probably.”

“I don’t like being thought of as a complication.”

“Well, you are. Tough. You’re also a damn good detective. If not for you, Boston would have a few more cretins on the street.”

She hadn’t expected any kind of compliment, not today. “Thanks for that, Bob.”

“I’m just stating the facts. I’m not trying to be nice.” His big frame took up most of the doorway. “Abigail. Detective Browning. You get burned up here-you cross the line-I can’t help you.”

“Understood.”

“Having a father who’s the director of the FBI isn’t a point in your favor. It’s not why you’re a detective today. Neither is having the unsolved murder of a loved one in your background. These are liabilities.”

“I like to think I’m a detective today because of my own hard work.”

“You are. You didn’t let your liabilities sink you.” He made a face, as if he’d been planning what to say to her but, now that he was saying it, didn’t like it. “I’m being blunt here, but I have to be. Your liabilities set you apart. They make people look at you and wonder, and that’s not good. I’ve stood up for you because you should have a chance to prove yourself on your own merits. And you have.”

“Your faith in me means a lot.”

“Yeah. That’s great. I’ll tell Scoop that we need to keep that in mind when reporters are camped out on our front stoop.” But O’Reilly wasn’t finished. “Tell me, kid. What are you going to do if you come face-to-face with Chris’s killer? Have you thought about that?”

“Every day for the past seven years.”

He wasn’t satisfied. “Do you see yourself calling 911?”

“Bob, I know what you’re getting at.”

“Or do you see yourself taking out your Glock and pulling the trigger and blowing this guy’s head off?”

“I see Chris.” Abigail crossed her arms on her chest and refused to look at her friend and mentor, a man with almost thirty years of law enforcement experience. “I see him nodding and saying, ‘That’s the one, babe. That’s the one who killed me.’”

Bob had no response. He walked into the front room and stood next to her. Lou had posted troopers at the porch and hall doors. No one was touching his seven-year-old crime scene wall.

“Beautiful spot,” O’Reilly said, looking out at the ocean. “I’m starving, though. Anyone up here serve lobster this early?”

Grace picked at a wild raspberry scone on the screen porch overlooking Somes Sound, possibly her favorite spot on earth. Mattie had wanted to make love to her out there when she’d slipped away from Washington for a long off-season weekend with him, months before Chris’s death, but she’d refused. She’d known, even then, at the height of their affair, that she and MattieYoung weren’t meant to last.

But Chris had met Abigail by then, and when Grace had seen them together, she’d known he was lost to her.

It was late morning now, the sunlight and shade shifting with the wind on the lush grass that Mattie so carefully, so grudgingly, tended, and as beautiful as the scene was, she would have preferred to be anywhere else.

Her father and uncle watched her from their seats at the round table, set with the breakfast dishes her mother had picked out long ago and decorated with a crystal vase of delphinium Ellis had brought down with him.

How, Grace asked herself, could she explain to them that she didn’t give a damn anymore what they thought?

Let them try to read her mind. Let them try to manipulate her. She just didn’t care. Her father knew he’d asked her the impossible. He knew he’d asked her to cross a line she wouldn’t cross.

Maybe it would have been easier if he’d been oblivious, but he wasn’t. Jason Cooper never spoke without knowing exactly what he was going to say and the impact it would have.

“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…”