Stick nodded in agreement. He had on his usual outfit of corduroy shorts and rugby shirt—he wouldn’t switch to long pants until it was bitter cold. He was seventy-two but looked at least ten years younger, a fit, healthy, white-haired retired federal district court judge. His family had summered in Goose Harbor for as long as Zoe could remember. He was the last of them—he’d never married, never had kids. Everyone was surprised when he gave up his lifetime appointment and retired. But he seemed content to take long walks along the water, work in his garden and read books. He’d never been much on boating. His friends included everyone from statesmen and corporate executives to lobstermen and cops. He was brilliant, but he wasn’t a snob.
“You came back because of the break-in?” he asked.
“It was the catalyst. I was ready. I’m unemployed.”
“So I hear.”
Zoe couldn’t detect any disappointment in his tone, but it had to be there. He’d been her mentor since she was a little girl, encouraging her, opening up a broader world to her. Despite her great-aunt’s fame, she was content to stay in Goose Harbor. So were her father and sister. But Zoe had the feeling Stick had hoped for more from her than going into the FBI—following in his footsteps, maybe. Law school, U.S. attorney, federal judge. He’d never made it to the appeals court—maybe he thought she would.
Now she was a fired cop. A Quantico no-show. Jobless.
“I’ve learned to knit,” she told him, then smiled. “Sort of.”
“Zoe—”
She could see the concern in his warm brown eyes. “I’m not here to make trouble, Stick.”
“What about the FBI agent, McGrath?”
“He’s on vacation. He helped Bruce put in a new door at the house.”
Stick leaned back in his chair, his coffee untouched. “I called in a few favors with contacts I still have in Washington and checked him out. He’s a powder keg, Zoe. This vacation wasn’t his idea.”
“Something happened?”
“An ultra-right-wing, antigovernment crackpot tried to slit his throat. Almost succeeded. McGrath killed him. The guy’s three kids were there.”
Zoe winced. “That’s awful.”
“He was working undercover. I’m not supposed to tell you any of this.” Stick drank some of his coffee. It must have been cold, because he took a huge gulp, swallowed it, then regarded her with obvious concern. “Those undercover types are all nuts. You know that.”
It was one of the most persistent stereotypes in law enforcement, but it didn’t come from nowhere. Zoe set down her fork. She wasn’t hungry anymore. “What else do you know about this undercover investigation?”
“It was out west. Violent extremists constructing and trading in illegal weapons and explosive devices and plotting the assassination of local, state and federal officials. McGrath infiltrated their network over several months, posing as a buyer. It turns out a local cop was involved and tipped off the bad guys. Hence, the nearly slit throat.”
“I’d need a vacation after that, too.” Just as well he’d seen her out in the driveway before she’d come at him with her drapery rod and sense of violation and humiliation. She didn’t want to surprise an FBI powder keg. “Well, I’ll give him wide berth. What’re you up to these days, Stick?”
He smiled. “Worrying about you.”
“Ah.” She smiled back at him. “Always good to know I’ve got a judge looking out for my best interests. I’m not out of control anymore, Stick. I don’t know what’s next for me in my life, but—”
“You want to know who killed your father.”
His blunt remark caught her off guard, and she felt herself going pale. “Of course I do.”
“It’s not that people around here don’t want to know, it’s just that they can live without it. They don’t want to have to relive the grief and horror of last fall. They tell themselves it was an out-of-town drug dealer, a random act because Patrick was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He set down his mug and got to his feet, adding softly, “But not you, Zoe. You want the truth, whatever it is.”
“Maybe it was an out-of-town drug dealer.”
His gaze settled on her. He was a tall man, his skin tanned and wrinkled but not sagging. “You think the break-in at the house is connected to your father’s murder.”
“I have no reason to think anything, Stick—except that I’ve had too many milk products for lunch. Chowder, then chocolate cream pie.”
He shook his head, patient, always the one who could see through her. “Keep in touch, okay?” He kissed the top of her head. “Welcome home.”
After he left, Zoe said goodbye to her sister, who was obviously enjoying herself as she put together orders. The lunchtime crowd hadn’t dwindled. The fall foliage was at its peak, the leaf-peepers out in droves—Zoe could hear a table of seniors as they pointed out brightly colored trees along the shoreline.
She headed outside. McGrath’s lobster boat was gone. He must have left while she was talking to Stick. She walked down to the docks and squinted, picking out Bruce’s old boat up toward Olivia’s, making its way along the shore to the nature preserve and the cluster of offshore islands.
That was something else she had to do—go back to the nature preserve, to the spot where she’d found her father’s body. Today was so much like the morning she’d found him. Cool, bright, beautiful.
Maybe it could wait until tomorrow.
She and McGrath had walked down from Olivia’s. She took her time crossing the parking lot and making her way to Ocean Drive, tried to ignore the flashbacks to the countless times she’d walked this route to visit her great-aunt. She’d see her father on the way. They’d always gotten along. They’d never had any big angst-filled battles. Neither had he and Christina. Zoe didn’t know if it was because they’d lost their mother so young and it’d squeezed out all of that need to rebel, or if it was just the way he was, the way they were as a family.
When she got back to the house, she decided she’d need groceries if she was going to stick around. She pushed back the wave of loneliness, the tug of grief at the emptiness of the house, and opened windows, feeling the cool, salt-tinged breeze and hearing the ocean. She started a list at the kitchen table—then stopped.
She had to know.
She ran up to the attic and made her way to her writing nook, banging her shin on a trunk. She picked up the yellow pad she’d caught McGrath holding and felt the heat rise up from her chest to her ears.
Just as she’d thought.
There was nothing wrong with her handwriting. That liar could read it just fine.
Teddy couldn’t help it—to him the ocean smelled like a bucket of barf, especially at low tide. He couldn’t get used to it. He stood at the water’s edge of the shallow cove in front of his wreck of a cottage and watched a lobster boat pull up to the lobster-pound dock, gulls swooping around everywhere. He’d once had a gull grab a ham sandwich right out of his hand.
Luke was on the phone, bitching him out. “You moron. Betsy saw you and that FBI agent arguing.”
“We weren’t arguing. He thought I was having a heart attack.”
Luke snorted. “And you believed him?”
“No, but so what?”
Teddy walked out onto a flat, gray rock, the water around it not two inches deep at low tide. It was more or less a puddle—a tide