She flung more pages on the fire.

By nightfall, I’m worried. So are Doyle Alden, a local police officer, and Owen Garrison, Chris’s rich neighbor. I can see it in their faces.

Chris should be back by now.

“Abigail? You’re not breathing.”

She made herself exhale and smiled at Bob, who, initially, hadn’t even wanted her in the department, much less working at his side in homicide. Too much baggage, he’d told everyone, including her. It wasn’t just her husband. It was quitting law school, it was her background. She’d had to earn his trust. “I’m okay. I should have done this sooner. It feels good.”

“Why are you doing it now?”

“What?”

Bob wasn’t one to miss anything.

Abigail tore more pages, tossed them whole onto the fire, nearly smothering it.

I ignore warnings to stay inside-to rest-and instead put on my hiking boots and go off on my own into the unfamiliar landscape. Unlike Doyle and Owen and my husband, I don’t know every rock, every tree root, every snaking path through the woods or along the shore.

I’m not from Mt. Desert Island.

Bob watched her squirt more charcoal lighter fluid on her fire, the orange flames glowing in his face.

“The journals are emotional clutter-a drag on me.” Her words sounded okay to her, anyway. Plausible. “I’m heading up to Maine in the morning.”

“I see.”

“I need to do some work on the house.”

“Taking vacation time?”

“Some. Things are quiet right now. I have plenty of time coming to me.”

Bob poked at the fire with his tongs. He wasn’t by nature a patient man, but he had explained to Abigail, equally impatient, how his experience had taught him the value of strategic silence. She knew if she tried to fill the void, he’d have her.

The combination of the lighter fluid, the flames, the heat and the emotion had her eyes stinging. But she didn’t cry.