Pryor didn’t take him up on the beer, but others did throughout January, including his four year-round deputies, his dispatcher, and two of the three part-time deputies who came on from June through September. The third spent six weeks every winter on Saint Lucia.

His only sticky beer came with the sole female deputy. Matty Stevenson had served four years in the Army, put in three years with Boston PD before moving back to the island where she’d been born. She’d taken another eighteen months to work as full-time caregiver to her mother, a widow, when her mother contracted breast cancer, before becoming the first female full-time deputy on the island force. She’d served as deputy for nine years.

Her mother, nine years a cancer survivor, owned and operated a seasonal island gift shop.

Matty sat across from him at a two-top, her hair short, straight, ashy blond, her eyes blue and hard. She wore a flannel shirt, brown wool trousers, and Wolverine boots.

He’d done his research, which was as much a matter of talking to people as reading her file. So he knew, after an angry marriage and divorce, she’d “taken up with” or “started seeing” longtime bachelor John Pryor.

He didn’t have to do any research to glean she wasn’t particularly pleased with her new, incoming boss.

He decided to play it straight and to the point.

“You’re pissed they’re bringing me in as chief.”

“They snuck you in from the outside. I’ve got close to ten years on the island force. Nobody so much as asked if I wanted the job.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference now.”

“I’m asking you,” he repeated. “I’m not chief yet.”

“You’ve got the contract.”

“Yeah. I’m still asking you. You’ve got four years military, a dozen years with the police, and a long time on the island. You’re probably more qualified than me.”

She sat back from her beer, folded her arms over her chest. “I am more qualified.”

“Why do you figure they didn’t offer you the job?”

“You’re male. You took a couple bullets. You’re one of the heroes of the DownEast.”

He shrugged. “All that’s fact—except hero’s a stupid word for what happened that night. You served in Iraq. You’ve got a Purple Heart. Hero’s not a stupid word for that. I’m male,” he repeated. “Are you telling me you think they passed you over because you’re not?”

She opened her mouth. Shut it. Picked up her beer and drank. “I want to say yes. I want to because they never gave us a heads-up. The chief never let us know he planned to retire until it was a done deal. I went at Hildy about it, too, went right at her. I dated her brother when we were in high school, goddamn it.”

She drank again. “But I can’t say yes because I’m not a liar.”

“Then why?”

“You already know why.”

“I don’t know what you think.”

“I’ve got a temper. I got written up a few times—in the Army, in Boston, and here, too. Not in the last couple years. Not since I got rid of the asshole I was stupid enough to marry. I freaking meditate every morning now.”

He stopped himself from smiling, only nodded. “Does it work?”

Now she shrugged. “Most of the time.”

“Good to hear. I don’t care how you button your shirt.”

She smirked at him. “This is a man’s shirt.”

“Don’t care. Other than the chief, who’s leaving, you’ve got more time as a cop than any of the other deputies. I’m going to need to depend on you, and I’m going to need you to give me a chance before you write me off as a dumbass off-islander.”

“What if that’s my conclusion after I give you a chance?”

“Then I won’t last long as chief.”

She considered. “That’s fair.”

“Okay. One more thing? If I need a plumber and call John Pryor, is he going to fuck with me?”

Now she snorted. “He shouldn’t have given you grief at the meeting.”

“It wasn’t that much grief.”

“He shouldn’t have anyway. Makes us both look like assholes. And bringing CiCi into it made him look like an even bigger asshole. The answer’s no. He takes too much pride in his work.”

“Also good to know.”

*

Thinking of CiCi, he drove over to her house on his next day off. When she didn’t answer, he walked around, as he often did, to her studio.

He could see the art through the glass, but not the artist.

He felt a little tug of worry, told himself it was just the cop always looking for worst-case, but he walked around to the patio. He’d try the door, he thought, just step in and call out.

Then he spotted the woman sitting on the rocks on the snowy beach.

He made his way down, enjoying the slap of the wind, the sound of the water, and the look of it. As hard a winter blue as the sky overhead.

She heard him, turned her head. That face, he thought. That instant sucker punch in the chest.

He climbed up, sat beside Simone.

“Hell of a view,” he said.

“A favorite.”

“Yeah, mine, too.”

She’d wound a scarf with a half dozen bold colors around her neck, pulled a cap of bright blue over her hair.

She looked vivid, Reed thought, and just downright amazing.

“CiCi’s not here,” she told him. “She’s taking a couple days at a spa with a friend. Spur of the moment.”

“I wondered when she didn’t answer. Her car’s out front. Yours, too.”

“I drove her to the ferry this morning. He picked her up on the other end.”

“‘He,’ huh?” Reed slapped his chest. “Heartbreak.”

“They’ve been friends for decades. And he’s gay.”

“And hope springs yet again.” He waited a beat, enjoyed her smile. “Am I in the way here?”

“No. I heard about the meeting the other night. Apparently you handled yourself well.”

“People need time to get used to me, judge whether I suck at the job or not.”

“I don’t think you’ll suck.”

“I won’t, but they need a chance to decide.”

“Most islanders like you. I hear.”

“I’m a likeable guy.” He shot her a smile to prove it. “I can even slide into affable. How about you?”

She looked back out, over the water. “I don’t think I do affable very well.”

“No, me. Let’s talk about me. Am I likeable?”

She turned her head again, gave him a long look with those tiger eyes. “Probably. I don’t really know you.”

“I could take you to dinner. It’s meatloaf night at the Sunrise, or there’s Mama’s Pizza.”

She shook her head. “I’m taking a break, but I plan to work tonight.” She took a deep breath of that slapping wind. “The cold’s getting through.”

When she shifted, he climbed down, offered her a hand.

“It’s the meatloaf, right?” he said, making her laugh.

“It factors, but I really do intend to work. I needed some air first. Some … mind airing.”

“As long as it’s not me asking you out that’s the problem.”

She tipped her head this time, sort of slid her gaze up. “I don’t know if it is or not, because I don’t really know you. And because I’ve opted not to go out with your gender the last few months.”

“Hey, me, too—with yours. I bet we’re due.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said as they walked through the lumpy path in the snow they’d both formed in the drifts, “you’ve got to break the fast sometime.”

“No, why are you on a fast?”

“Oh.” He concluded a woman wasn’t brushing a guy off—altogether—if she kept talking to him. “Well, got shot, had to brood and bitch over that awhile, came here, met the breathtaking CiCi, changed my life. Not a lot of time for meatloaf with a woman in there. You?”

“I’m not really sure. Lack of interest. There may have been some SBZ in there.”

“SBZ?”

“Simone Brood Zone. I sometimes reside there. But primarily, I’d say a lack of interest.”

“I can be interesting as well as affable.” He started up the beach steps with her. “I could clear these off for you.”

“That’s the affability. It’s appreciated, but we’re getting another few inches tonight anyway.”

“Have you got everything you need in case there’s more? Food, drink—Sorry,” he said when his phone signaled. “I need to go by the…” He trailed off, studied the text. “Ah, I need to go by the market anyway, so—”

“What is it? I know faces,” she said as they reached the patio. “You’ve got a good poker face, or maybe that’s cop face, but it slipped for a second. Is your family all right?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing like that.”

“I know faces,” she repeated. “You should come in, have coffee.”

She crossed the patio, opened the door. “CiCi would insist, and would be disappointed in me if I didn’t.”

“Coffee’s good.” He stomped off his boots, stepped into the house, the warmth.

She turned on the fire first, then stripping off the coat, hat, scarves, gloves, walked to the coffee machine. “Straight or fancy?”

“Just black.”

“Manly man.” She kept her voice light. “I usually go for lattes myself. I worked in this crappy coffee shop when I first got to New York. But we made excellent lattes.”

“I upset you the night of the party. Your friend said I didn’t, but—”

“Mi’s right, as usual. You didn’t. I was thinking about something, and you made me think harder. I was abrupt, but that’s because I was inside my own head.”

“The SBZ?”