new flooring. Abigail had collected do-it-yourself books over the years. Surely there was a chapter on gutting a room. How hard could it be? She just had to be careful not to drop anything on her head or electrocute herself.
The wind picked up, gusting through the open door. A light plastic chair scraped across the porch floor and fell over backward, landing with a bang that, although she’d seen it coming, startled her.
She shot out of her chair and grabbed the sledgehammer, lifting it with both hands, remembering Chris grinning at her as he’d held it himself so long ago. What had he been doing? She couldn’t even remember.
She saw the section of wall where they’d fixed the leak on their last morning together. The job had never been finished properly. She could see the edges of tape and dried spackling, and the paint over the repair work didn’t match the white of the rest of the wall.
Abigail could do the work herself, or ask friends, or hire it out, but she simply hadn’t gotten around to it.
“Oh, Chris.”
Her voice caught on the wind and seemed to echo out on the darkening rocks.
She drew the sledgehammer back and, on an exhale, smashed it not into the haphazardly repaired wall, but the narrower wall next to the porch door.
The plaster cracked. White dust puffed out from where the sledgehammer had struck.
She smashed the wall again. This time, the head of the massive hammer broke through the plaster.
Tears mixed with plaster dust in her eyes.
“I owe you, my friend.”
Seven years…
“I owe you all I am.”
CHAPTER 11
T he acidic smells of evergreen and peat mixed with the smells of low tide, filling the cool night air. Owen stood out on his deck, listening as he angled his flashlight beam up onto the rocks. He’d been drawn outside by voices, a sharp exchange near the old foundation.
Mattie Young stepped out of the shadows and crooked an arm in front of his face. “You’re blinding me.”
“What’re you doing out here, Mattie?”
“Running from Abigail. She’s armed—I thought she was going to kill me.”
“I wasn’t going to kill you.” Abigail jumped lightly off a boulder and landed behind Mattie, who flinched. “I’m still not, but I wouldn’t throw another beer can at me if I were you.”
Her voice was calm, coplike.
Owen lowered his flashlight, pointing the beam at the ground and lighting the way for the two of them. “Come on over here. We can sort this out.”
“Not me,” Mattie said. “I’m going home.”
“How?” Abigail asked him. “Are you going to ride your bike in the dark?”
“Yeah. I do it all the time. You don’t like it, call Doyle. I’ll tell him you threatened to shoot me.”
She sighed. “I didn’t threaten to shoot you, Mattie.”
“You’re armed—”
“Damn right I’m armed. Were you spying on me?”
“Why would I spy on you?”
“That’s not an answer. You were out here Sunday night—before I got here. Did you know I was on my way?”
“Of course not. How would I?”
Abigail paused for a half beat. “You know you can’t drink safely, don’t you?”
Mattie didn’t answer. Neither of them, Owen noticed, had started back toward his deck, his warm fire, a chance to talk.
“Get yourself to a meeting,” Abigail said. “No more jaunts out here in the dark with a six-pack. Right, Mattie? Makes sense?”
“Go fuck yourself, Abigail. You’re not a detective here.”
Mattie spun around and marched out to Owen’s driveway, oblivious to the dark.
“Where’s your bike?” Abigail called.
“Up on the road. Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you hide it?”
“Go to hell.”
“At least your language is improving. If you hid your bike—”
“I’m not hiding anything.” He stopped abruptly, turning back to her. “I just don’t bow down to you. I knew Chris’s parents. I knew his grandfather. I knew them before you were even born. You think you’re the only one who cares about what happened to Chris? You
The wind picked up, gusting through the open door. A light plastic chair scraped across the porch floor and fell over backward, landing with a bang that, although she’d seen it coming, startled her.
She shot out of her chair and grabbed the sledgehammer, lifting it with both hands, remembering Chris grinning at her as he’d held it himself so long ago. What had he been doing? She couldn’t even remember.
She saw the section of wall where they’d fixed the leak on their last morning together. The job had never been finished properly. She could see the edges of tape and dried spackling, and the paint over the repair work didn’t match the white of the rest of the wall.
Abigail could do the work herself, or ask friends, or hire it out, but she simply hadn’t gotten around to it.
“Oh, Chris.”
Her voice caught on the wind and seemed to echo out on the darkening rocks.
She drew the sledgehammer back and, on an exhale, smashed it not into the haphazardly repaired wall, but the narrower wall next to the porch door.
The plaster cracked. White dust puffed out from where the sledgehammer had struck.
She smashed the wall again. This time, the head of the massive hammer broke through the plaster.
Tears mixed with plaster dust in her eyes.
“I owe you, my friend.”
Seven years…
“I owe you all I am.”
CHAPTER 11
T he acidic smells of evergreen and peat mixed with the smells of low tide, filling the cool night air. Owen stood out on his deck, listening as he angled his flashlight beam up onto the rocks. He’d been drawn outside by voices, a sharp exchange near the old foundation.
Mattie Young stepped out of the shadows and crooked an arm in front of his face. “You’re blinding me.”
“What’re you doing out here, Mattie?”
“Running from Abigail. She’s armed—I thought she was going to kill me.”
“I wasn’t going to kill you.” Abigail jumped lightly off a boulder and landed behind Mattie, who flinched. “I’m still not, but I wouldn’t throw another beer can at me if I were you.”
Her voice was calm, coplike.
Owen lowered his flashlight, pointing the beam at the ground and lighting the way for the two of them. “Come on over here. We can sort this out.”
“Not me,” Mattie said. “I’m going home.”
“How?” Abigail asked him. “Are you going to ride your bike in the dark?”
“Yeah. I do it all the time. You don’t like it, call Doyle. I’ll tell him you threatened to shoot me.”
She sighed. “I didn’t threaten to shoot you, Mattie.”
“You’re armed—”
“Damn right I’m armed. Were you spying on me?”
“Why would I spy on you?”
“That’s not an answer. You were out here Sunday night—before I got here. Did you know I was on my way?”
“Of course not. How would I?”
Abigail paused for a half beat. “You know you can’t drink safely, don’t you?”
Mattie didn’t answer. Neither of them, Owen noticed, had started back toward his deck, his warm fire, a chance to talk.
“Get yourself to a meeting,” Abigail said. “No more jaunts out here in the dark with a six-pack. Right, Mattie? Makes sense?”
“Go fuck yourself, Abigail. You’re not a detective here.”
Mattie spun around and marched out to Owen’s driveway, oblivious to the dark.
“Where’s your bike?” Abigail called.
“Up on the road. Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you hide it?”
“Go to hell.”
“At least your language is improving. If you hid your bike—”
“I’m not hiding anything.” He stopped abruptly, turning back to her. “I just don’t bow down to you. I knew Chris’s parents. I knew his grandfather. I knew them before you were even born. You think you’re the only one who cares about what happened to Chris? You
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