She came three days later, sliding the secondhand SUV into the line waiting at the mainland dock. Like many who waited, she stepped out of her car to wander.
She’d let her own hair grow to her shoulders, colored it a beachy blond. She’d used self-tanner religiously over the past few weeks, and with careful layers of makeup, she’d achieved a healthy glow. Under big, stylish sunglasses, contacts turned her eyes into bluebells.
And under her breezy blue summer dress—one with short sleeves to hide the scar under her armpit—she wore a fake baby belly filled to simulate a woman at about twenty weeks. On the third finger of her left hand, she sported an impressive wedding set—cubic zirconia, but sparkly enough to pass for real.
She’d sprung for a good mani/pedi, French for class, and carried a Prada summer bag to go with her sandals.
She looked like a polished young pregnant woman of some means.
She spotted the pair of hikers—man and woman—sitting on their packs while they waited to board. Young, too, she thought, and the woman looked hot and tired.
She wandered over, a hand on her fake baby as she’d observed pregnant women did. “Hi. I hope you don’t mind if I ask if you know any easy—really easy—hiking trails on Tranquility? My husband’s a serious hiker, and when he gets here later in the week, he’s going to be all about it. I’m just not up for the serious hikes.”
She smiled as she said it, rubbing that bump.
“Sure.” The woman answered Patricia’s smile. “You can get a map at the information center back there.”
“You can get them on the island, too,” the man told her. “The ones at the info centers are free, but they have better ones at some of the shops. They don’t cost much, I guess.”
He got a map out of his pack. “We can show you a couple nice, easy beach hikes. The one out to the lighthouse is a little longer and tougher, but it’s worth it.”
“Great. Mostly I just want to sit on the beach, read, watch the water, but Brett loves to hike. Where are you coming from?”
She chatted them up. She—Susan “Call me Susie” Breen—had driven up from Cambridge. Her husband—Brett—had been called out of town suddenly on business, but she was happy to have a couple of days to get the cottage, one they’d rented for six wonderful weeks, ready, lay in supplies, have that time to sit and read and watch the water.
They—Marcus Tidings and Leesa Hopp—chatted right back.
“Say, why don’t I give you a ride over? I have to pay for the car anyway, and they don’t charge for passengers. It would save you the pedestrian fee. Plus I can take you into the village, at least as far as the rental office where I have to pick up my keys.”
Grateful, they walked to her car before Patricia realized she’d missed changing plates at the rest stop with the Massachusetts plates on a Suburu. Smiling as she cursed herself for the slip, she came up with a cover story—borrowed her brother’s car.
But her friendly hikers didn’t notice as she chat, chat, chatted.
She told Leesa to sit in the front with her, so she didn’t feel like a taxi driver.
They embarked, a group of three, having hung out at the rail on the trip over.
When Patricia drove off at Tranquility dock, the deputies on ferry duty didn’t look twice at the SUV with Ohio plates carrying three passengers and a cargo space full of luggage.
* * *
As Patricia stopped at the rental office for her keys and welcome package, Simone used a blowtorch to heat the bronze until it turned gold. She brushed ferric nitrate over Reed’s hair, over Barney, over areas she wanted hints of red and gold to shimmer with the bronze.
She’d use silver nitrate on the sword, on the collar she’d given Barney to bring out a silvery-gray patina. The work would take hours—but she considered it an improvement on the ancient method of burying the bronze to oxidize it. And this gave her control, allowed her to highlight, add a kind of movement and life.
She’d worked and studied with patineurs in Florence and in New York to learn the art, the science, the techniques. For this, a piece that had become so intimate to her, she called on all she had, asked herself for more.
When she paused in the work, she walked her studio, drinking water, clearing her mind. And she studied the faces on her shelf. More now. Throughout the finishing of the bronze, she’d taken breaks, worked on those faces.
The last one she’d completed looked back at her with wide, smiling eyes. Trent Woolworth, the boy she’d loved—as a young girl loves. He’d never had a chance to become a man. She’d thought he’d broken her heart, but he’d barely pricked it. She knew that now, and felt for him only regret and grief.
She’d join his face with the others, all the others, and cast them in bronze as she had Reed. Cupric nitrate, she thought, for the subtle and beautiful greens and blues, to mirror the water.
She could do this, would do this, not only because she’d finally found it inside her, but because the man she did love helped her open the rest.
She put on her gloves, turned back to the sculpture of Reed.
Hours later, her shoulders stiff from the final steps of sealing—waxing and buffing—she went down to CiCi’s studio.
Through the glass she saw her grandmother at her framing station, so she walked in.
“I wondered if you’d surface.”
“So did I, but I— Oh, CiCi, I love it. Reed’s house, the lupines like a sea of color, the woods, the light! Fairies in the woods, just a hint of them in that dappled shade.” She murmured, “And Reed standing on the widow’s walk with Barney, with me.”
“That’s how I see it. I’m going to give this to him—and, as I see it, you—for Christmas. You’ll be living with him by then unless my granddaughter’s an idiot. Which she’s not. I think this would work in the master bedroom.”
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” She took CiCi’s hand. “Can you stop for a minute, come outside?”
“If there’s an adult beverage involved, I can.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Give yourself and Reed a break,” CiCi said as they walked out and across to the patio. “Go to his place tonight. You’ve both been working crazy hours. You’re both tense waiting for that next shoe to drop since that last ugly card arrived. Go, crack a bottle of wine, and have a lot of sex.”
“I’m on that same path because, you see? I finished him.”
CiCi’s breath caught—the artist and grandmother felt her heart soar. “Oh, oh, Simone.” She walked to the counter where it stood in the late afternoon light. “It has life, a pulse, a soul, and more. Oh, the patina, such light and depth and movement. The detailing, the flow.”
She let the tears burning her throat free. “Get me that wine, baby, and a tissue. I’m overwhelmed.”
She took a breath, moved around the sculpture as Simone opened a bottle. “Years ago, back in Florence, at your first show, your use of Tish, your Emergence, grabbed me just this way, brought me to tears this way. You do beautiful work, Simone, some of it stunning. But this, like Emergence, has your heart and soul in every line, curve, angle.”
She took the glass, the tissue. “He’s magnificent. He breathes. You won’t have to tell him you love him when you show him this. Unless he’s an idiot. Which he’s not.”
“I’m ready to tell him.”
“Then go do it.” CiCi drew Simone close. “Go get your man.”
* * *
In her beach cottage, Patricia used the second bedroom for weapons—guns and ammo, a night-vision scope, poisons, syringes, knives. Her HQ, she thought. She would put up maps of town, document her target’s routines, his close associates. She’d learn where he drank his beer, ate his lunch, who he fucked.
She’d keep the door locked, tell the housekeeper her husband was territorial about his office space. No entry allowed.
She set men’s toiletries in the master bathroom, put men’s clothes in the master bedroom closet, the dresser. Later in the stay, she’d leave men’s shoes here and there and other items carelessly tossed around.
She set out a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, which she’d dog-eared and marked up in advance. Hiking gear that read male, a bottle of top-shelf gin, which she’d pour out into the sink a bit now and then, her unblended scotch—which she’d drink herself—a couple bottles of fancy wines and craft beers, the food supplies she’d bought at a stop at the market.
Satisfied, she went out for her first stroll through the village.
Easy to mix and meld with groups and crowds, simple to wander into a shop and buy a few trinkets—including a pair of bathing trunks and a Light of Tranquility T-shirt she told the shopkeeper her husband would love.
She spotted Reed within a half hour, holding a dog on a leash while he—from the looks of it—gave a bunch of people some directions.
You’ve come down low, big-shot detective, she thought.
She didn’t follow him directly. She strolled, crossed the street, window-shopped. But she kept an eye on him all the way back to his rinky-dink police station. And considered it a good start.
* * *
After Simone’s text, Reed decided, for once, he could go home before dark. Maybe the day only seemed quiet after the craziness of the holiday, but it was quiet enough.
He walked Barney toward home. The itch between his shoulder blades had him circling a little, scanning a lot, but he saw nothing and no one that drew his attention.
“Can’t let the waiting psych us out, Barney. Take it a day at a time.”
Seeing Simone’s car parked in front of the house lifted him up. Seeing her sitting on the porch, sipping wine, finished the job.
“You’re early.”
“Pretty quiet today. The chief of police is taking the night off.”
“That’s handy. So am I. I’ve missed nights off with you.” She pulled a chew bone out of her pocket. “And you, too, Barney.”
“Just sit right there. I’m going to get a cold beer, and we’ll sit awhile.”
“Actually, I have something to show you.” She took his hand. “And things to say,” she added as she drew him inside.
She’d found a stand for it at the flea market—knowing he’d appreciate that sentiment, too. It stood in the entryway, a statement, to her mind: He’d protect all within.
And there, the bronze caught the early evening light just as she wanted.
He stared, speechless, and she saw on his face what she’d hoped to see. The stunned wonder changed to something else when he looked at her.
No, she thought, he wasn’t an idiot. And still, cautious.
“I … I need a second. Or an hour. Or a month. It’s hard to take in. I never expected—I don’t know why I never expected … when I’ve seen your work.”
“It’s different when it’s you.”
“That, yeah, but…” He just couldn’t wrap his brain around it. “It’s— You put Barney in it.”
“I thought at first I’d use a woman, or a child. And then I watched you with him, him with you, saw how his trust in you has changed his life, his world. Like mine for you has changed mine.”
“It’s the most amazing thing. You made me look—”
“Exactly as you are,” she interrupted. “Every hour I spent on this work showed me more and more of who you are. More of who I am. And we are. I didn’t fall in love with you during the work.”
She laid a hand on his heart. “You can give Barney some credit for when I did, how I fell when I saw you, the first time with him, washing that poor, skinny, scared dog, laughing when he soaked you and licked at your face. I fell realizing you had that inside you.”
He closed his hand over hers. “Say it, okay? I don’t care if he gets the credit. I’ll buy him caviar Milk-Bones. But I really want you to look at me, Simone, look at me and say the words.”
“This is who you are to me.” She touched the sculpture. “This is who you are,” she repeated, pressing her other hand on his heart. “This is the man I love. You’re who I love.”
He lifted her to her toes, then an inch higher, capturing her mouth as she hung suspended, holding it as he brought her down. “Don’t ever stop.”
“I cast your heart, and mine, together in bronze. That’s forever.” She gripped him tight, pressed her face to his shoulder. “You waited for me. You waited until I could tell you.”
“Waiting’s over.” He took her mouth again, circled her toward the stairs. “Come with me. Be with me. I need—”
His phone went off. “Fuck. Just fuck.”
He yanked it out. “Yeah, yeah, it better be—” His eyes went flat, cold. “Where. Anybody hurt? Okay. I’m on my way. Sorry. Damn it.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, no, cop business.”
“What cop business?”
“Somebody shot through the window of a cabin up on Forest Hill.”
“Oh my God.”
“Nobody’s hurt. Cecil’s already there, but … I need to go.”
“Be careful.”
“Probably some asshole trying to shoot a deer, and probably long gone. Let’s go, Barney. I’ll be back.” He caught Simone’s face in his hands, kissed her.
* * *
When Reed arrived at the cabin, one neatly tucked into the inland woods, Cecil walked out.
“Hey, Chief. I heard the dispatch go out when I was on my way home, so I radioed Donna I’d take it, since I was close.”
“What’ve we got?”
“Family from Augusta renting the cabin for a week—couple and two kids. They’re having some ice cream, talking about going for a walk, and hear a shot—a sort of pop—and breaking glass. This window here.”
He walked Reed over to examine a side window with a hole and radiating cracks from it in the glass.
“Hit a lamp inside, too,” Cecil told him. “The wife grabbed the kids up, kept them down and away from the windows. The husband called nine-one-one. He looked around out here some after, but didn’t see anything.”
Reed examined the damaged window, turned to study the trees and the shadows deepening in them with dusk.
Inside, he spent some time soothing nerves and tempers before hunkering down by the broken lamp. Avoiding the shards from the globe, he pulled out a penlight, shined it under a chair.
And came up with a BB.
While he soothed, reassured, apologized to the frazzled family, Patricia watched the cabin through field glasses. She’d noted Reed’s response time, the make, color, tags of his car for future reference. When he stepped out again, she lifted the BB rifle onto her shoulders, softly said, “Bang!” and laughed.
“No island kid’s stupid enough to shoot a BB gun like that, Chief. It has to be some dumb-shit summer kid.”
“We’re going to go by all the cabins and cottages in this area, see if we can find a dumb-shit. I appreciate the overtime, Cecil.”
“Aw, that’s no problem.”
They split up to handle it, but Reed’s thoughts kept circling. A small cabin, he thought, four people inside. But the pellet hits in an area no one’s near at that time. And bull’s-eyes a lamp.
Maybe a dumb-shit. Maybe not so dumb.
* * *
For the next week, Reed dealt with a rash of petty vandalism. Spray-painted obscenities on the window of the Sunrise, flowerpots stolen right off the porch of the mayor’s house, three cars keyed while their owners enjoyed dinner at the Water’s Edge, all four tires of another slashed as it sat in front of a rental overlooking the south inlet.
He sat in the mayor’s office as Hildy unloaded.
“You have to put a stop to this, Reed. Every damn day it’s something else, and it’s not the usual summer problems. I’m spending most of my time on the phone dealing with complaints. If this keeps up, it’s going to cost us revenue and damage our reputation. Dobson’s making noises about writing up a petition to have you removed as chief. You need to handle this.”
“We’re doing full-island loop patrols, on foot, in cruisers. I added night patrols. We’re on twenty-four hours.”
“And still can’t catch some nasty kids.”
“If we were dealing with nasty kids, we would have. This is too smart for that.” He rose, went to the map on her wall, tapped various points. “Every sector’s had a hit of some kind. That means whoever’s doing it needs to have a car or bike. And the time frames are all over the clock.”
“You think this isn’t some nasty, bored kid or kids, but a deliberate attempt to undermine the island?”
“Something like that. I’m going to shut it down, Mayor. This is my home, too.”
As Reed walked back to the station, he couldn’t blame Hildy for the anger. He had plenty of his own. He couldn’t blame her for the shaky faith in him, as he believed that was one of the purposes of the vandalism.
Hit every point of the island, he thought, see how he responded, how long it took, where he went, how he got there. Not bored kids, he thought. Hobart, and she was stalking him.
He’d checked the rental offices, the B&Bs, the hotel. No single check-ins. But she’d found a way around that because he knew she was on the island. And watching him.
He ran through the content of the last card—number four. A sympathy card this time, why be subtle?
Enjoying the summer, asshole? Soak up those rays because you’re going to spend a lot of time in the cold and dark. I won’t come to your funeral, though all those tears would be delicious! But I’ll come back, and spit on your fucking grave.
My luck’s in. Yours is running out. It’s time to die.
XXOO, Patricia
Pretty direct, he thought, but what had interested him more had been the scrawling handwriting, and the pressure of the pen on the card. She’d written this one while riding hard on emotion, and she hadn’t been as clever with the rental car she’d used for her last kill. Not when they’d tracked it with GPS within an hour of that kill. He had to leave it to the feds to track down if she’d taken a cab or bus from the airport, rented another car, bought one. Maybe she’d already had one waiting in the lot.
But whatever she’d driven out of Ohio, she’d driven onto the ferry in Portland and onto the island.
Because she was here.
* * *
Patricia opened the door to the twice-a-week housekeeper in a robe, her wet hair slicked back. “Oh my! We overslept.”
“I can come back.”
“No, no, please. It’s fine. We wouldn’t want to throw you off schedule. My husband’s still in the shower, but maybe you can start in the loft? He told me to tell you thanks for offering to at least vacuum in his office, but it’s fine.” She rolled her eyes. “I swear he thinks about his work like state secrets or whatever. I’m going to go get dressed. You’re welcome to make yourself some coffee. I sure miss being allowed that one cup a day.”
She patted her belly as she crossed the living area to the master. She opened the door to let the sound of the shower she’d left running spill out before she closed it again.
As she dressed—capris and a pink T-shirt, fancy hiking boots—she held a conversation with no one, added some laughter, opened and closed drawers, the closet door.
She inspected the room—bed tumbled on both sides—a spy thriller and a nearly empty glass of wine on one nightstand, a historical romance and teacup on the other. A man’s belt slung over the back of a chair. Damp towels in the bathroom—two toothbrushes—bristles damp. Male and female toiletries.
Satisfied, she opened the door, looked back over her shoulders. “Yes, Brett, I’m coming! Go ahead. We’re going for a walk, Kaylee,” she called out to the housekeeper. “You can do the bedroom anytime.”
“Have fun!”
“Oh, we will. We love it here. I’m just getting my water bottle and pack, honey. Men,” she said for the benefit of the housekeeper in the loft above. “So impatient.”
She left by the opposite door, and decided she’d take a stroll to the house a little chatter and gossip had revealed belonged to the chief of police.
A long hike for a pregnant woman, she thought with a smirk. But she felt up to it.
* * *
For the next few days, the vandalism eased off, making most conclude the troublemakers’ vacation had ended, and they’d gone off-island.
Reed didn’t buy it.
“She’s still here.” Reed drank a Coke on CiCi’s patio while the sun set like glory at water’s edge. “She’s smart enough to know screwing around could get her caught with the extra patrols, but she’s still getting the rhythm.”
He turned to them, these women he loved. “You could do me a big favor, get on the ferry in the morning, take a trip somewhere.”
“She won’t leave you,” CiCi said. “I won’t leave either one of you. Ask for something else.”
“If you were off somewhere,” he persisted, “Florence or New York—”
“Reed,” Simone interrupted.
“Damn it, staying just means I have to worry about you. She’s gearing up. It’s no goddamn coincidence she’s here—and she’s here—when we’re coming up on the thirteenth anniversary of DownEast. She slipped it in the card. My luck’s running out, hers is coming in. Unlucky thirteen. It’s less than a week, and I don’t need the two of you scattering my focus out of sheer, wrongheaded, female stubbornness.
“You’re in my way.” He didn’t shout, and his deliberate tone added edgy barbs to every word. “So get out of it and let me do my goddamn job.”
“That’s not going to work, either,” CiCi said, cool and calm. “Trying to pick a fight, make us mad isn’t going to change a thing. But damn good try.”
“Look, this isn’t—”
“I hid before,” Simone interrupted.
“Bullshit!” Now he did shout, and had Barney bellying under a table. “Don’t start that bullshit with me.”
“I did hide. I’m not saying it wasn’t the right thing to do because it was. But it’s not the right thing now, and it would strip away what it took me years to build back up again.”
“Simone.” At wits’ end, he pulled off his cap, dragged a hand through his hair. “I swore I’d keep you and CiCi safe.”
“You said you want to start a life with me. This is our life. You think she’ll try to … do this on the twenty-second?”
He’d try calm reason, again. “I think that makes a circle for her, yeah. I think she knows damn well you and I are together, and if she can take me out, she’ll come for you. Not you first,” he said. “You’re still higher on the chain than me. And she’ll want to eliminate the biggest threat. I’m the cop with a gun, you’re not. If the two of you went off-island until after the twenty-second, I wouldn’t have to factor your safety into the mix.”
“For me—and CiCi—not to be safe means she’d have eliminated you. You won’t let that happen. You won’t let that happen,” Simone repeated, rising and moving to him, “because you know if she kills you, she’ll kill me. Maybe not now, but sooner or later, and you won’t let her. I believe that, trust that, absolutely.
“Besides.” She framed his frustrated face with her hands. “I have too much to do to go off to Florence or New York or anywhere else. I have work, and it occurs to me the twenty-third’s a good time for me to move in with you. I have a lot to pack up.”
He dropped his forehead to hers. “That’s a damn sneak attack.”
“The twenty-third, Reed, because you’ll have ended this. I’m moving in. CiCi, you’ll come to dinner.”
“I’ll bring champagne.”
“I’ll need to keep my studio here until Reed and I finalize the design and plans for my workspace at … our house.”
“It’s always here for you, my clever, clever girl.”
“That day, the twenty-third, it’s going to be a symbol for us,” she told him. “A reminder that whatever terrible things happen, we’re together.”
“I think this calls for a big pitcher of sangria.”
Reed shook his head at CiCi. “I can’t. I’ve got to get back. Stay here,” he told Simone. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Come on, Barney, we’re not going to get anywhere with these two. Cast in the same damn mold.”
“That’s why you love us,” CiCi called as Reed walked out. “I’m proud of you, Simone.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Me, too.”
* * *
As Reed completed another patrol, Patricia sat in her war room, sipping a gin and tonic—heavier on the gin as time passed. It felt like a waste to pour it down the sink.
And the gin made a nice change of pace from scotch.
A couple of drinks—or three—helped her sleep. How was she supposed to sleep without a little help when her mind was so full, so busy?
It wasn’t like her father—she didn’t get drunk, did she? It wasn’t like her mother. She wasn’t using the booze to wash down pills.
She just needed a little help to calm her mind. Nothing wrong with that.
So, sipping gin, she studied her maps, her time lines, the photos taken with her phone.
The fact that two of her top targets were lovebirds both infuriated and delighted her. They didn’t deserve even an hour of happiness. But then again, she would slit their happiness at the throat and watch it bleed dry. And with a little more time—she still had a little more time—to observe the bitch, maybe she’d kill two birds with one stone.
On the other hand, she thought as she rose to pace, she’d always planned to take out the bitch who’d called the cops last. She still had a half dozen targets on her board, leading up to the cunt cop who’d killed JJ, then finishing it off with the interfering little bitch who’d hidden like a coward.
She’d come this far following the plan, she assured herself, and had the cops and FBI running in circles. She should stick with the plan. If JJ had stuck with the plan …
It hadn’t been his fault, she thought, rapping a restless fist on her thigh as she paced and sipped, paced and sipped. Simone Knox killed JJ, and she wouldn’t forget it.
So, maybe if—and only if—the opportunity fell into her lap, she’d take the bitch out early. Otherwise.
She picked up her gun, aimed it at Reed’s picture. “It’s just you and me, asshole. And taking you out? Yeah, that’s going to break your little whore’s heart—and the cunt cop’s, too. Delicious tears. That works for me.”