“It’s too late for lattes.”

“You’re drinking a Coke.”

“Makes no sense, does it? I’ll have a latte. Off topic for one moment,” she said as she put a pad of butter in a skillet to melt, began breaking eggs in a bowl. “You could use some herbs and spices that aren’t salt and pepper and red pepper flakes.”

“Write them down, and I’ll get them.”

“What happened with Prissy and Rick?”

“Big fight, apparently, because, yeah, he’s still seeing the woman from Westbrook. Prissy chose tonight, during the storm, to tell Rick—a drunk Rick—she was getting a lawyer and filing for divorce.”

“You can’t blame her.”

“No, you can’t,” he agreed. “She found a receipt from some lingerie shop in Westbrook in his pocket—which proves he’s a cheater and a dumbass. This when they’ve been having some money issues, and he swore he’d ended things with the recipient of the sexy lingerie. Prissy started dragging his clothes out of the closet, threatened to light them on fire, busted his MVP trophy from high school softball. He claims she threw it at him. She says she threw it against the wall. I’m going with her because I don’t think she’d have missed, and he was too drunk to duck.

“Anyway.” He set her latte on the breakfast bar while she scrambled the eggs. “He stormed out in the storm, drunk and pissed. Lost control, hit a tree. Most of the tree fell on Curt Seabold’s truck. Seabold runs out, a little bit drunk himself, and he and Wagman get into it, bust each other up, with Seabold having the advantage of only being a little drunk and not already bloodied up from running into a damn tree. Seabold’s wife, Alice, runs out, sees Wagman on the ground and her husband staggering around with blood pouring out of his nose, and calls nine-one-one.”

“At least somebody acted sensibly.”

“Yeah, well. I had to arrest them both, haul their sorry asses to the emergency clinic. Seabold’s back home—I figured house arrest until we sort through it all. Wagman’s in the clinic with a cracked rib—and I know that’s no fun—a mild concussion, busted lip, banged-up knee, and so on. Prissy, who has no sympathy, suggested I tell him to call his slut, which I declined to do.”

“Wise.” She toasted some of the bread he’d picked up at the market, and set a plate down for him, then one for herself. “This will keep the island entertained for weeks. I hope she doesn’t take him back.”

“She seems pretty hardened there.”

“She took him back at least once before that I know of—another summer worker. They’ve only been married three or four years. He’s never going to be faithful to her, or the slut. He hit on me just last week.”

“Did he?”

“In an idiot sort of way.” She sampled the latte. “Good latte.”

“I’ve been practicing. The eggs are great.”

“They’d be better with some thyme.”

“Thyme’s on the list.” He tapped his temple. “So how did you spend your evening?”

She set down the latte, looked into his eyes. “I have a confession to make.”

“At least you could let me interrogate you first. I can already see you’ve stolen one of my shirts. There’ll be consequences.”

She laid a hand over his. “I’m going to apologize first. I was rude and intrusive.”

“Did you find my stash of porn?”

“You have a stash of porn?”

He stared back, face deliberately blank. “Of what?”

She let out a half laugh. “God, you really are so damn appealing. I was restless after you left. I’m going to say something else because it hit me. With anyone else, I’d have gone home. I’d have said to myself, Well, that was fun, left you a chirpy note, and gone home. Party at CiCi’s. But I didn’t, and I’m really going to have to think about that. I never even considered leaving.”

“I asked you not to.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she insisted. “With anyone else, it wouldn’t have mattered. I majored in one-night stands in college.”

“Long time ago, Simone.”

“Yes, but I have to think about why, when I was restless and alone in a house that’s not mine, I didn’t even consider leaving. But being restless, I thought I could sketch. Some of you, and maybe a mermaid for your bathroom wall. Only I didn’t have a sketch pad with me. So I went into your office to look for a pad.”

“Oh.” The shutters came down over those interesting green eyes. “Okay.”

“You closed the door.”

“I didn’t lock it,” he pointed out. “I didn’t say: Don’t go in there if you know what’s good for you.”

“God. You’re so steady, so solid.” Not feeling as steady, she pushed her hands through her hair. “I saw the legal pads in the closet—no door there.”

“I’d just have to open and close it. What’s the point?”

“Then I saw your work. Those big rolling boards. I realize some of what’s on them is official. What? Crime scene photos and reports.”

“Yeah. Since you’re not a suspect, we can let that slide. But I’m sorry you saw some of that.”

“It’s what you see. The dead and destroyed, the bodies, the people who kill. You look right at it, because somebody has to. Isn’t that right? Don’t say it’s part of the job, Reed.” She squeezed his hand. “Don’t say that.”

“It is part of the job, the job I choose to do. It’s part of my life. It’s a kind of … mission, if that doesn’t sound too lame.”

“Not in the least.”

“I won’t stop until I take her down. If the feds beat me to it, that’s fine. Either way, it closes out. When it does?” He reached over, brushed her hair back from her face. “I take down the boards. I file it all away.”

“Can you?”

He sat back with his coffee. “What happened that night’s part of us, and always will be. But it doesn’t, and it can’t, define us. Not you or me, or who you and I are going to be together. We need—however hackneyed the word—closure. And some fucking justice.”

“Yes.” She let out a breath. “We, none of us, ever had either.”

“I’m going to work to get both. Then I’ll think about Patricia Hobart sitting in a cell for the rest of her life, and I’ll be good with it. Better than.”

“You’re made that way. That’s how it is for you. The good guys go after the bad guys.”

“That’s how it should be. What are you doing, Simone? You’re creating a memorial. You’re working on the heart and the soul, honoring the dead, comforting those they left behind. That’s a job, too, but it’s not just a job. That’s your mission.”

“I’m pretty late in getting to it.”

“So what?”

“You’re awfully good for me,” she stated. “That scares the crap out of me.”

“I’m going to get even better for you, so you’ll either get used to it or live scared.” He picked up their plates, took them to the sink.

“Will you talk to me about your work? Like, how you believe Patricia Hobart’s going to try to kill one of the survivors who’s moved south. The two in Florida are top of your list.”

“It’s what I think, and mostly a hunch. The problem is hundreds of people survived. She’s got a lot to choose from. I will talk to you about it, and you’ll talk to me about your work. But not tonight.

“Did you check in with CiCi?”

“I did. You got a woo and a hoo.”

“She’ll probably never make hot, sweet love with me now.” He turned around. “I guess I have to settle for you.”

She cocked her head. “There’s a gorgeous Italian cellist in Florence named Dante with whom I made hot, sweet love many times. And could again. But since I’m not in Florence, I guess I have to settle for you.”

“That’s a solid snap back. I did promise you more sex.”

“You did.”

“I’m a man of my word.”

He held out a hand. She took it.

Reed managed a couple hours of sleep before a bright, blustery dawn. He told Simone to sleep and stay as long as she wanted before he headed out with a to-go cup of coffee and an I-had-a-lot-of-sex spring to his step.

He walked, despite the icy patches and slick mud, because he wanted to survey storm damage. He saw plenty of downed branches and hefty limbs—but no trees as unlucky as Curt’s.

Needed some cleanup, he decided. He’d have to buy a chain saw, and be careful not to kill himself or others with it. The water might have been bright blue, but it rolled with some violence, white horses galloping.

He spotted a crew of three surveying damage on some of the rentals, stopped to check.

Shingles blown off here and there, plenty of storm debris, and as one of the crew told him, a muddy, bitching hell of a mess, since rain poured in again after the ice.

He found a crumbled bike on the road, but no blood or sign of the passenger. He hauled it up to take with him. Somebody’s flag—pink with a flying white horse—lay tattered and soaked in a puddle. That he left behind.

Some, already out clearing their yards, paused to call out to him, asked how he’d fared in his first nor’easter on the island.

He didn’t say he’d spent most of it in bed with a beautiful woman.

But he thought it.