“Told ya. I’m going to head out, for my lonely meatloaf. I’ll see you around.”

“I don’t get around very much,” she said as he started out.

“That’s okay. I do.” He stopped at the doorway, turned for just a moment. “I’ve gotta say this one more thing. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in my goddamn life.”

She laughed, sincerely amused. “I’m not even close.”

“You’re wrong again. I ought to know what I’ve seen in my own life. CiCi’s got my number around here somewhere. You need anything, call.”

She frowned as he walked out, as she listened to his boots on the stairs. She sipped more wine, then poured what he’d left in his glass into her own, drank a little more.

He was interesting, she thought. And could put the affable on and off like a pair of socks. She had a sense he could be dangerous, and that just made him more interesting.

Plus he knew how to kiss in a way that nudged open the door, just a crack.

She’d have to think about that one.

Most of all, he’d looked at her work and seen what she needed to give it, what she’d needed from it.

And he’d understood.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Standing on the widow’s walk, Essie McVee marveled. The day shuddered with dead gray February, cold as the lash of a frozen whip, and still the view spread like wonder.

The sea and sky, both that broody, bored gray, couldn’t erase the breadth of it or the power of the rocky coastline with the incessant flick of icy water.

She smelled pine and snow, breathed air so cold and damp it felt like she swallowed chipped ice. Far to the right, the buildings of painted clapboard formed the village and a path of trampled snow wound through trees with white-coated branches.

Far off, the lighthouse stood, a beacon of color and joy against the stubborn winter gloom.

Below the house, a rickety pier, with some worrisome gaps, cut on an angle through a break in the rocks.

“You’ve got a dock.”

“Yeah, such as it is. I’ve got a boat shed, too. No boat. Mrs. Dorchet sold it after her husband died. I might get one. A boat. Maybe.”

“A boat.”

“Maybe. I’ve already got the shed and the pier. It seems like I should have the reason for them.”

She looked up at him, remembered the sorrowful boy on the bench at the park, the young cop learning his way, the partner she’d gone through doors with. The friend she’d found bleeding.

Now this. A man looking out at what was his.

“It’s not a shithole, Reed.”

He grinned. “Needs some work here and there, but nope, not a shithole.”

“How’s it feel to be chief?”

“I’ll let you know next month. I’m making some progress, finding my feet. For the most part, people seem to be reserving judgment on whether or not the off-islander can make the grade.”

“You’ll make it.”

“Yeah, I will. It’ll be quiet for the next couple of months, so more time to find my feet, get to know who’s who and what’s what. And take control at the station house.”

“Any issues there?”

He made a noncommittal grunt. “The current chief’s got my back, and that helps. The deputies, the dispatcher, they know what’s what, and things are in a kind of lull during the transition. Got some quirks, like anywhere, but they’re solid enough. The best of the bunch is the lone female.”

“Do tell?”

“Smart and tough. A little bit of a hothead, but I can work with that.”

“Beware the office romance.”

“What? Oh no.” Laughing, he shook back his disordered mop of hair. “Hell no. Not my type, and I’d be her boss on top of that. Boss—ha ha. Anyway, she’s about forty, divorced, and hooked up with an island plumber. Then there’s Leon Wendall. Former navy—petty officer. Seven years on the force here. Likes to fish. His wife of thirty years is a teacher. Three kids, one granddaughter.”

“Seven years? And they brought you in over him?”

“He’s not a boss,” Reed said with a shake of his head. “Doesn’t want to be. He’ll keep his eye on me though. Guaranteed. We’ve got Nick Masterson, thirty-three, newlywed. He’s competent. His family owns the Sunrise Café. His mom keeps the books. And we finish the full-timers with Cecil Barr. Twenty-four, easygoing, but not stupid. His father’s a fisherman, mother’s a nurse, older sister studying to be a doctor, younger brother still in high school.

“We wind up with Donna Miggins, dispatcher. Sixty-four, sharp. I’ve been warned by the lady herself that I can fetch my own coffee, do my own errands, and she won’t take any sass. I like her. I’m a little afraid of her, but I like her.”

“You’re happy.”

“I am that.”

“And you’ve put back most of the weight you lost.”

“I’ve been patronizing the Sunrise Café. Most islanders wander through sometime during a given week. And I’m a crap cook anyway.”

“You ought to learn to deserve that kitchen.”

“If I don’t cook,” he pointed out, “it stays clean.”

“That makes a stupid kind of sense,” she conceded.

“Let’s head down, get some coffee. I just bought that fancy machine.”

“I don’t know why,” she said as they went in, down the stairs. “When you drink it, it’s black.”

“The girl of my dreams likes lattes.”

“The artist?”

He flapped a hand on his heart. “Thump, thump.”

She paused, as she hadn’t on the way up, outside the master suite and, with the privilege of an old friend, wandered in.

“Really nice space, great views again. You still don’t have a bed.”

He pointed to the mattress and box springs. “That’s a bed.”

“A bed has a frame, a headboard, possibly a footboard. Some style. You’re never going to get the girl of your dreams on that.”

“You underestimate my charm and sex appeal.”

“No, I don’t.” She looked around, noting the teddy bear cop sitting on what he mistakenly called a dresser. “You need an actual dresser instead of that ugly block of wood you’ve had since college. Maybe a nice chair. Some tables, nice lamps. A rug. And…” She trailed off as she peeked into the en suite. “Jesus, the bathroom’s fabulous.”

“Previous owner’s son, like the kitchen. No more piss-trickle showers for me, baby!”

“Spring for some new towels, find some local art for the walls in here—and a good mirror for the bedroom.”

“You’re a tough sell, Essie.”

“I know what I know.”

She walked out, and into an empty bedroom. “What’re you going to do with this? Home office?”

“No, I set that up already, down the hall. I figure a guest room—I’ll end up having two of them. You and your family could come stay sometime. I’m going to buy a big-ass grill. I’ll start paying you back for all the meals and the nights I ended up flopping at your place.”

“We’d love it.”

“First decent grill-on-the-deck weekend we’re both off.”

“Deal. Queen bed—you’ve got the room—simple duvet and curtains, a little desk and chair, nice lamps and end tables—nothing matchy—an old dresser—not a crap one, but an old one.”

“What are you, my decorator? Yeah, yeah,” he said, before she could. “You know what you know.”

She continued her exploration, came across the unrehabbed bath. Sea-green tiles bordered in black. Sea-green john and shower/tub combo. Sea-green sink in a white vanity.

“I like it.”

“You do?”

“It’s retro and kitschy, and it has possibilities. You need a new vanity, and some paint, and some fun towels, shower curtain. It’ll be adorable.”

She wandered on—rattling off ideas to the point he figured he should be taking notes. Then opened the door to his office.

“Ah,” she said.

He’d put his desk—a big, clunky holdover from college—in the middle of the room. That way, he could see the views, the door, and the pair of rolling boards he’d set up against a wall.

On the first whiteboard, he had tacked Patricia Hobart’s photo dead center. Along with photos and crime scene shots of her victims, he’d written in time lines, added copies of reports.

Lines, solid or dotted, fanned out, intersected.

On the second board he’d pinned the three shooters from the DownEast Mall, time lines again, weaponry, and photos, names, ages of the dead. Separated by a red line, he’d displayed photos, names, ages, locations, employment of survivors.

The room held three gunmetal-gray filing cabinets, a couple of folding chairs leaning against a wall—drywalled, mudded, sanded, but not painted—his old mini-fridge—also from his college years—and a kitchen-size trash can half-full of empty cans of Coke and Mountain Dew, water bottles, and take-out coffee cups.

The open closet held office supplies—paper for the printer, the scanner, file folders, a tub of markers, a stack of legal pads.

On the floor of the closet sat a case of water, a case of Cokes, another of the Dew—all opened and pillaged.

Essie moved to the boards, studied them.

“Good, thorough work, Reed.”