and colors, anything that didn’t scream “cop,” that didn’t remind her of touching her father’s dead body...of hearing her aunt say, “I know who did it....”
The only solace she’d found in those weeks was in spending time up here. She bought yellow pads and pencils, a pencil sharpener, ten different kinds of pens, and she sat on her rug amid her pillows, staring out her window at the harbor and scribbling.
She should have dismantled her secret retreat before she left for Connecticut. Set fire to everything.
Pushing back her sense of embarrassment and violation at the idea anyone had pawed through her private space, she came around the two tall bureaus that marked one of her walls.
A lean, black-haired man had his legs stretched out and one of her yellow pads on his lap, and when he looked up at her, it was all Zoe could do to hang on to her drapery rod. He might have crawled off a Winslow Homer seascape with his blue eyes and weathered appearance, more the New England seaman than a Montana FBI agent.
He smiled at her. “You must be Mama Bear.”
“And you must be Special Agent McGrath.”
“Zoe West?”
She nodded. She didn’t know what else to say. Ex-detective West? Almost Special Agent West? She cleared her throat. “I understand you’ve met my sister, Christina.”
“I have.”
She felt ridiculous carrying a drapery rod and self-conscious seeing the yellow pad with Chapter One scrawled in her handwriting across the top in his lap. It was as if there was nothing left in her of the veteran Maine State Police detective or even the somewhat eccentric sole detective of Bluefield, Connecticut.
McGrath got to his feet. He was tall and obviously very fit. Zoe used to be more fit before she took up residence with Charlie and Bea Jericho and started knitting and canning and milking goats, trying to put her life back together after her year of self-imposed exile. She didn’t run, not since she’d found her father’s body.
She watched McGrath take in her outfit of slim black pants, little fuchsia top, black flats and silver ankle bracelet and put that together with the image he, like the rest of Goose Harbor, must have formed of her. At least he couldn’t see her rose tattoo.
He gave her a slight nod. “You want to call the police or just hit me over the head with that curtain rod?”
“It’s a drapery rod. You can tell because of the hooks and the little pulley thing.”
“Ah.”
He tossed her pad onto a rose-flowered pillow. He moved with the kind of restrained control that reminded Zoe she was out of practice with her hand-to-hand combat skills. He wasn’t wearing a weapon. He had on jeans, a thick black sweater and scuffed boat shoes.
She tried not to glance at the pad. She’d written in longhand, page after page of nothing anyone else was supposed to see. Ever. “Did you read—” She took a breath and decided she didn’t want to know. “Never mind. Did Bruce give you permission to stay here? He has no right—”
“Bruce doesn’t know I’m here. It was my idea to stay here.”
His tone was unapologetic. He was simply stating the facts and letting her decide what she thought of them. His voice was deep and slightly raspy, as if it’d been dragged over sharp rocks a few times.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you got me thrown out of my inn.”
“What? I did no—” She stopped herself. Why make a denial? Why lie? He hadn’t asked a question or demanded an explanation. No point in painting herself into a corner. “I’ll see you downstairs in the kitchen.”
“As you wish.”
Right. As if she had any control over the situation. She took her drapery rod with her, about-faced and headed back to the stairs, just missing falling into the stairwell and ending her return to Goose Harbor with a broken neck—which would have served her right.
J.B. made his way down the attic steps thinking Zoe West must have known she wasn’t dealing with a real threat or she’d never have come after him with a drapery rod. Either that or she’d gone more off the deep end as a cop than even he’d expected.
He debated packing up his stuff before heading down to the kitchen, then decided not to keep ex-detective West waiting. She had a right to be pissed at finding him in her attic, but he didn’t feel bad about it. At some point in her not-too-distant past, she’d decided to resurrect Jen Periwinkle. He’d read the first chapter on her yellow pad. He knew she’d written it because she’d put her name at the top of the first page in neat block letters. It was pretty good. Her Jen Periwinkle was a little older than Olivia West’s Jen Periwinkle, and she had a boyfriend. A young FBI agent. J.B. got a kick out of that. No sign of Mr. Lester McGrath in what he’d read.
He’d watched Zoe West drive up to her aunt’s house in her yellow VW and could have alerted her to his presence at any time, but he hadn’t. Not very nice of him, but she had searched his room. He figured she deserved to find him in the attic.
She had her kick-ass cop face on when he joined her in the kitchen. She was standing with her back to the sink and her arms crossed. He noticed she had more flecks of gray in her blue eyes than her sister did; she wasn’t as tall and her blond hair was shorter. She didn’t have as many freckles. With the little shirt and pants and the ankle bracelet, she didn’t look as if she’d ever carried a gun. J.B. suspected that was pure prejudice on his part, but there it was.
“I’d like an explanation,” she said.
“An explanation of what?”
No reaction. “Of why you’re here.”
“In Goose Harbor or in your house?”
“Both.”
He pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, keeping an eye on her. “I’m in Goose Harbor on vacation, and I’m in your house because I figured you owed me one for pawing through my room.”
“Your name’s J. B. McGrath?”
“Jesse Benjamin McGrath.”
“And you are with the FBI, right?”
“I was trying to keep a low profile, but yes. Do you want to see my credentials?”
She gave a tight shake of the head. “I understand your ancestors are from Goose Harbor.”
“That’s right.”
“McGraths?”
“No.”
“You know that Jen Periwinkle’s evil nemesis is named McGrath?”
“He’s fictional,” J.B. said. “I’m not.”
She muttered something that sounded like “more’s the pity,”
