But when he reached for the door, to close it between them, she stepped forward.

“Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out. I heard enough to understand she killed someone else. Someone you tried to warn. Come in, Reed, put some clothes on. You don’t know it yet, but you’re freezing.”

“A lot of fucking good it did. She didn’t answer the phone. Maybe already dead. Too fucking late.” He tossed his phone on the bed, grabbed his pants. “And this Homicide asshole’s grilling me about why I left the message, why I left the Portland PD, how I know so much, where I was during the time in question. Fucking cocksucker.”

He caught himself again. “Sorry. I have to go.”

“To do what? Put your fist through a wall somewhere else? Once the fucking cocksucker does a minimum of checking, he’s going to know he’s a fucking cocksucker.”

“That won’t make Emily Devlon any less dead. She had two little kids. I was too late.”

She moved to him, wrapped around him.

“Damn it, Simone. I was too late. She got by me.”

“You?” She squeezed hard, eased back. “Why you, and you alone?”

“I’m the only one she’s tried to kill who’s looked her in the eyes and lived.”

“So you’re not going to stop. Right now you don’t think that counts for much, but it does. I predict the cop in Florida will call you back, apologize, and ask for your help.”

“I don’t want his fucking apology.”

“You’re probably going to get it anyway. But now, we’re going to take a walk on the beach.”

“It’s cold, it’s the middle of the damn night. I need to go,” he insisted. “You should go back to bed.”

Odd, she thought, he usually held on to his calm. Now that his had slipped, she had a good grip on her own.

“You’re going to wait until I get dressed, then we’re going to walk. It’s something that helps me, at least sometimes, when I’m really pissed off. Let’s see if it helps you.”

She went to her dresser for a sweatshirt, sweatpants. “Seeing you in full-blown rage? I realize just how lucky the island is to have you.”

“Yeah, nothing like a pissed-off chief of police.”

“You have a right to be pissed, and still, already, you’re banking it down. And part of the pissed, the part that’s still showing, is sad. I knew you were smart and clever as a cop. I knew you respected the job you do, and want to do it well. And I knew you cared about people, but tonight I saw just how much you care.”

She got a scarf, wound it around her neck. “We’re lucky to have you, Chief. I’ve got a warm jacket downstairs. We’ll get it, and yours, on the way out.”

“I’m in love with you. Dear Christ, don’t let that scare you off.”

It stole her breath for a minute, and she had to take a firmer grip on her calm. “It scares me. It’s not scaring me off, but I need a little more gathering myself together before I’m sure what we’re going to do about it. I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. I just need to figure that out.”

“That works for me. And I’m less pissed off now.”

“Let’s take that walk anyway. You’re the first man who’s said that to me I’ve believed. I think we both need a walk on the beach.”

It helped, and though he didn’t go back in, back to her bed, she knew he’d steadied himself. He kissed her, drove away after he waited for her to go inside.

She didn’t go back to her bed, either. Instead, she made a large cup of coffee, went to her studio.

There she found the sketch of Emily Devlon she’d made from the photo on Reed’s board. And gathering her tools, began to do what she could to honor the dead.

PART THREE

Proof of Life

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

He did get an apology—stiff and obviously on orders—from the Florida detective. And a follow-up call from the detective’s lieutenant, who didn’t appear to have his head up his ass.

They exchanged information and promises for updates as they came.

Donna rapped on his doorjamb. “We got a call from Ida Booker over on Tidal Lane, and she’s fit to be tied.”

“About what?”

“Some dog got into her compost bin, and dug up her flower bed where her daffodils were just coming up, and chased her cat up a tree.”

“Whose dog is it?”

“It’s nobody’s dog, that’s the other problem. She’s saying it’s the second time in two days its treed her cat, and she asked around having never seen the dog before. The thinking is somebody dumped it. Came over with it on the ferry, went back without it.”

“Do we have a stray dog problem on the island I don’t know about?”

“We didn’t, but it appears we’ve got one now. Ida says if she sees that dog again, she’s going to shoot it in the head. She loves that cat.”

“We’re not going to have anybody shooting a dog.”

“Then you’d better find it before she does. Her blood’s up.”

“I’ll handle it.” He could use the distraction.

He drove to Tidal Lane, a pretty neighborhood of eight permanent homes where the residents took pride in their gardens and had formed a kind of informal commune of craftspeople.

Ida, a sturdy woman of fifty, wove textiles, had raised two sons, and loved her cat.

“He scared Bianca, and God knows what he might’ve done if she hadn’t made it up the tree. And look what he did! Dug up my bulbs, spread my composting all over hell and back. And when I came out, he ran off like a coward.”

Reed thought he’d rather deal with a cowardly dog than an aggressive one. “Did he have a collar?”

“I didn’t see one. For all I know he’s rabid.”

“Well, we don’t know that. Give me a description.”

“Some brown mongrel dog, and dirty. Fast. First time he came around and chased Bianca, I was right over there, prepping that bed for planting. I stood up, yelled, and he ran off. Same thing today. I heard the barking and carrying on. Bianca likes to nap on the porch. I came out, and he lit out.”

“Which way?”

She pointed. “Tail between his legs. He’s lucky I didn’t have the shotgun.”

“Mrs. Booker, I’m going to advise you against getting that gun and firing it.”

“My cat, my property.”

“Yes, ma’am, but deploying a firearm in a residential area’s against the law.”

“Self-defense,” she said stubbornly.

“Let’s see if I can round up the dog. You say he ran off, so he didn’t come at you?”

“He went after Bianca.”

“I get that, but he wasn’t aggressive toward you?”

“Ran the minute he saw me. Coward.”

Not aggressive with people then. Probably. “Okay. I’ll look for him. If I don’t find him, I’ll send a couple of deputies to look around. We’ll round him up. Sorry about the daffodils.”

He checked the neighborhood, found those who’d spotted the dog—usually after he’d knocked over a trash can and run off.

He cruised awhile, wondering where he’d go if he were a dog who liked to chase cats and dig up daffodils. It calmed him, he realized, the simple task of searching for a stray dog, crisscrossing that area of the island in his cruiser and on foot.

Still, he’d nearly given up and decided to send Cecil out on the hunt, when he heard the barking.

He spotted the dog on a stretch of beach, chasing birds and the lap of the surf. He got the loop leash and the hamburger he’d stopped for earlier, walked down slow and easy as he considered his quarry.

Not rabid to his eye, the way he splashed and ran, and not much more than a puppy. Skinny—ribs showing—so maybe the food would do the trick.

He sat, unwrapped the burger and set half of it beside him.

The dog’s nose went up, sniffing, then his head turned. The minute he spotted Reed, he froze.

Reed sat, waited, let the breeze carry that seductive scent of meat. The dog hunched down, crept closer. Long legs, Reed noted, floppy ears, and, yes, tail tucked.

The closer the dog got, the lower he got, until he bellied over like a combat trooper. Eyes on Reed, he nipped the burger, ran back to the surf. Devoured it.

Reed set down the second half, got the loop leash ready.

The dog bellied over again, but this time Reed slipped the loop around his neck when he lunged for the meat.

The dog tried to pull back, eyes wide and wild.

“Uh-uh, none of that. You’re under arrest. And no biting.”

At the voice, the dog froze, then began to tremble.

“I’d say somebody gave you a bad time.” Reed picked up the burger, and his movement had the dog hunching and cringing. “A very bad time.” Keeping his movements slow, he offered the rest of the burger.

Hunger overcame fear. The tucked tail gave a hesitant wag.

“Gotta take you in. Attempted assault on a feline, destruction of personal property. The law’s the law.”

Slow, slow, Reed laid a hand on the dog’s head, skimmed it back and over, felt the bumps of scars at the neck. “I’ve got some of those myself.”