in with a trio of seniors, and she didn’t move until they were out of sight. Then, shivering in the chilly ocean air, she sat on a three-foot boulder and watched the tide slowly roll in, the two smallest islands visible offshore, just the northern tip of the largest, Sutherland Island, visible. They were mostly rock and evergreens, but their rugged look was deceptive. Their thin soil actually made them very fragile, easily damaged by careless hikers and kayakers. Luke Castellane’s father, Hollywood director Victor Castellane, had bought Sutherland Island years ago—the nature preserve wanted to add it to its onshore acreage.
Zoe stared at the short stretch of beach, not breathing, seeing herself a year ago when she realized there was no hope, her father was dead. She hadn’t known if the shooter was still nearby, if she was in danger, but she hadn’t been able to make herself respond like a law enforcement officer—it was her father dead before her.
She could still feel the water seeping into her running shoes as she ran out into the cove, screaming at a lobster boat down toward Sutherland Island. It turned out to be Bruce Young’s.
It occurred to her then and had stuck with her for the past year that her father’s murder had something to do with her. Was she supposed to find his body? It was no secret she ran in the preserve. Had she told him something in the weeks before that ultimately got him killed? Had a case she worked on when she was with the state police come back to haunt not her, but her father?
In the first weeks of the investigation, the state detectives had looked into all those possibilities. But there was nothing—no lead, no potential lead—that connected back to her.
So, what about Teddy Shelton?
She doubted it took much to pop up on McGrath’s radar screen, but still.
She leaped suddenly up off the boulder, as if she’d been bitten by a spider, but it was just nervous energy, restlessness. She’d spent the last two months milking goats and knitting. Why hadn’t she come back here sooner? She was convinced now, just as she was a year ago, that the answers to her father’s murder didn’t lie outside of Goose Harbor. They were here, in her hometown.
I know who did it....
Then again, maybe she was letting herself be misled by a dying old woman’s ramblings.
“Damn.”
She took a breath and walked back up to the trail. The three-hundred-acre preserve was her aunt’s legacy, as much as her Jen Periwinkle novels were. Olivia had had a long, good life. It was some consolation. Her father’s was cut short, in midlife. He hadn’t even had a chance to fight back. For him, Zoe’s only consolation was that he hadn’t suffered—the coroner said he’d most likely died almost instantly.
The first murder in Goose Harbor in thirty years.
She glanced back at the cove, the afternoon light waning as the tide washed over the sand and rock. There were worse places to die.
J.B. wasn’t in the mood for darts. He sat at a round table with a good view of Perry’s ancient bristle dartboard and wood-shaft darts and drank his iced tea. He was staying away from alcohol. His judgment was off enough as it was. What the hell was he doing, getting involved with these people? He should leave and check into the Kennebunkport inn that Lottie Martin had recommended. Finish his vacation somewhere else.
Zoe West had gotten to him. She wasn’t out of control like he was—she had such a tight rein on herself, it was a wonder she could breathe. It wasn’t the picture he’d formed of her based on the stories about her from last fall. He knew about post-trauma reactions. Flashbacks, sleep problems, anger, irritability, numbness. She’d pushed herself. She’d pushed everyone.
He thought of her standing in the cove where she’d found her father’s body. She still had no answers.
Bruce plopped down next to him with a beer. “I’m having a lobster roll and calling it dinner. You?”
“Sounds good.”
Bruce put in their order and settled back in his captain’s chair. He’d once insisted that the antique lobster pot on the wall had belonged to his great-grandfather. J.B. never knew when Bruce was pulling his leg and when he was playing it straight.
His expression darkened when Kyle Castellane entered the waterfront restaurant with two young women J.B. had never seen before. They all sat at a table behind Bruce and J.B., and Kyle snapped his fingers at a middle-aged waitress. She walked over and carded him. She had a broad Maine accent, and J.B. thought she was married to one of the lobstermen who wanted to throw him overboard and set fire to his boat.
The kid argued with her. “I come in here all the time. Nobody asks me for my I.D.”
“I just did,” she said.
He complied, grinned sheepishly at the two women with him. “I guess I won’t mind being carded when I’m forty.”
Bruce got up, plucked the darts off the dartboard and walked back to the table, sitting down heavily. “No Christina,” he said under his breath. “You see that?”
“She and Zoe are having dinner together.”
Without standing up, Bruce turned his chair and fired a dart at the board. It hit the wall. He fired another, hitting an outer ring. “They’ve had a tough year. Chris has a good thing going with her café. She’s scared Zoe’ll start knocking heads together, or stir up dust just because she’s here—”
“She tell you that?”
“She’s been saying it for months. ‘What if Zoe comes back and it all starts over again?’ Like that.” He turned slightly to take a sip of his beer, and his eyes shifted to Kyle, just for an instant. He made a face, muttering under his breath. “I wish I knew what she sees in him.”
“He’s smart, rich, artistic and not from Goose Harbor.”
Bruce managed a grin. “Other than that. I just want her to be happy.”
“That’s what I told myself when the congressional staffer I was dating last year gave me the heave-ho. It beat the truth.”
“The truth was you’re a jackass, McGrath.”
“Possibly. I also wasn’t around enough, and I didn’t know the right people and get invited to the right parties.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t get invited to any parties. Who’s she seeing now?”
“No idea. I’ve been busy.” J.B. left it at that. Bruce had exhibited very little curiosity about the details of J.B.’s work with the bureau, which was just as well since he wasn’t getting any of them. “That’s why I’m on vacation now.”
“Where you staying tonight?”
“My boat, the rate I’m going.”
Bruce liked that. “I can loan you a sleeping bag and a tarp if it rains. You could stay at my place, but I have three dogs—most people complain about the dogs.”
“Do they eat off the counter?”
“I
