anything, everything, trash, footprints, broken brush.â
Lou nodded and loped toward the picnic grounds.
âSergeant, get the strobe lights and cameras. Set them up near the victim.â
Harrison hurried toward the van.
A shabby black coupe with a battered fender squealed to a stop behind the police vehicles.
âDoc Burfordâs here.â Max squinted against the glare of the lights.
Face thunderous, black bag in hand, the islandâs burly medical examiner bulled toward them. Annie knew anger carried him. Doc Burford fought death with ferocious tenacity as theislandâs most beloved GP. As M.E., he encountered deaths that shouldnât have happened, drownings, car wrecks, drug overdoses, fires, murder. To have life stolen infuriated him.
Irisâs life was stolen.
His expression remote, Billy glanced at Annie and Max. âYou can leave now. Please come to the station at nine tomorrow. Bring the party guest list, plus I need to know who Iris spoke to at the picnic.â He nodded at Annie. âDonât clear out her cabin. Weâll do that. And get some fingerprints.â
Annie knew that Billy was remembering her belief that someone had hidden in the cabin, knocked Emma forward. If only sheâd told Iris of her suspicion.
Oyster shells crackled underfoot as Doc Burford hurried toward them. His face bleak, he grunted hello, turned to Billy.
âThis way, Doc.â
As the men disappeared into the woods, Annie shivered, cold from the offshore breeze, cold from the icy ache deep inside. âI should have warned Iris, told her I thought someone hid in the cabin and hurt Emma. Iris might have been scared. Maybe she wouldnât have gone into the woods.â
Max took her hand, gripped it hard. âEmmaâs fall looked like an accident.â
âPamela told me about the bruise on Emmaâs back.â Annieâs voice quivered. âAny fool should have put it together.â
He slipped his arm around her shoulders. âEveryone thought Emma fell.â
She was grateful he understood her anguish, the empty feeling of having failed to act when action mattered. It might have made no difference if sheâd warned Iris. But, oh, it might have saved her.
Max gently turned her away from the woods. âLetâs gohome, honey.â They walked through the silent picnic area, the tables ghostly now, all traces of laughter and life gone.
Annie carried with her the memory of Irisâs thin face, burdened by sorrow. Iris had fought a good fight, one day at a time, until the days were no more.
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T HE TREMULOUS MOAN OF A SCREECH OWL BROKE A NNIEâS shallow, fitful sleep. Theyâd left open the sliding door to the deck. Annie watched the rippling curtain, smelled the heady scent of the marsh. She lay as still as she could, trying not to disturb Max.
The late watches of the night often spawned formless fears, phantasms that danced at the edge of consciousness, darting from the dark places of the soul, leaving corrosive trails. Irisâs death was another reminder of the fragility of life. No one was safe. Not ever. Not anywhere. In an instant, everything could be lost.
Swept by anguish, Annie rolled up on her elbow. The hounds of death bayed in her heart. She flung an arm across Max. He was alive and living and so was she and there was goodness and love no matter how dark any night might be. She held tight to him.
He came awake.
Her lips found his, warm and living and loving.
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T HE SUN SLANTING THROUGH THE WINDOW OF B ILLYâS OFFICE Saturday morning emphasized the pouches beneath his eyes, eyes reddened by lack of sleep. His fresh uniform already looked wrinkled. This was one Saturday morning he wouldnât spend mulching his roses. Two crumpled Coke cans topped discardedpapers in an overflowing wastebasket. He had likely been at his desk since dawn. The files stacked on his highly varnished yellow oak desk tilted a little to his
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