The Widow by Carla Neggers Page B

think you’re the only one who wants his killer found?”
    “Mattie,” Owen said. “That’s enough. Go home. Get some rest.”
    “Sleep it off, you mean? I’m not drunk.”
    But he tripped as he reached the driveway, swearing, then held up one hand, his middle finger clearly visible in the light from the house. He continued on around a bend in the driveway, disappearing into the blackness.
    Abigail had gone silent. Owen raised his flashlight to her, catching the hard set of her mouth. She had on a sweatshirt, but she had to be cold.
    “Come inside,” he said. “Warm up.”
    “Thanks.” She climbed up on the deck, glancing up the driveway. “He has a point. You all knew Chris longer than I did.”
    “He was just trying to get under your skin.”
    “Maybe. Chris didn’t make excuses for him, but he didn’t judge him, either, even after he knew he had to detach from him. He believed in Mattie. He has such talent.”
    “Talent’s not a lot of use if you don’t make something of it.”
    “Chris always said Mattie never had a sense of his own limitations. One of those good thing, bad thing deals. The good thing—it allowed him to take risks with his photography. The bad thing—he doesn’t save money, he doesn’t set realistic goals. He basically thinks the rules don’t apply to him.”
    “That’s part of why he keeps drinking.”
    “Alcoholics Anonymous is for other people. Not for him.” She sighed. “It’s such a difficult disease. If he could make that breakthrough—”
    “Only he can. No one else can do it for him.”
    “I said pretty much the same thing to Chris. But he knew without me having to tell him. We all know.”
    Owen could feel the cold now. He’d shot outside in his T-shirt. “Mattie’s used Chris’s death as an excuse not to deal with his problems.”
    “Maybe.” Abigail’s expression hardened again. “But Mattie has had his own agenda long before Chris was killed.”
    Owen stepped closer to her, flicking a fat mosquito off her forehead.
    She waved at one in front of her. “I should have put on bug spray.”
    She followed him inside. She wasn’t winded from chasing Mattie out on the rocks in the dark. She was in good shape. As a cop, she would need to be, but she also seemed to enjoy physical activity—a thought that twisted itself into an image that Owen suspected she’d shoot him for having in his head.
    “I have a bottle of Chianti I’ve been saving.”
    “Saving for what?”
    “Now, I guess. I’ve had a long year, and I don’t like to drink alone.”
    She smiled, sitting on a chair in front of the woodstove. “Open it up, then. What did you do today?”
    “Linc Cooper stopped by. He wants me to teach him everything I know in two weeks or less.” He grabbed a wine bottle off the rack in his kitchen. “I remember that feeling. Linc’s got a big set of issues. He thinks learning to jump out of a helicopter is going to help solve them.”
    “Did it help you?”
    He opened the wine. “I had a different set of issues.”
    The fire had gotten hotter than he’d meant it to, Abigail’s cheeks reddening in the warmth. The hard look was gone now, her dark curls softly framing her face. “You’ve got white dust in your hair,” Owen said, setting two glasses on the counter and pouring the wine.
    “I’ve been knocking out walls.”
    “Cathartic?”
    “I don’t know. I suppose it is. It’s just one of those things that needs to be done.”
    “Did you stake out Mattie just now, or did you hear him and investigate?” Owen walked over to her with the two glasses and handed her one. “I’m guessing you laid in wait for him.”
    “You’re guessing wrong. I was curious, and just took a walk over there—”
    “In the dark.”
    “Correct.”
    “Without a flashlight?”
    “I didn’t need one, really, out in the open on the rocks, with the stars and the moonlight. Once my eyes adjusted, I was fine. There was one short stretch of woods that was a little