Not that she needed consolation. Not anymore. What she needed was resolution.

Answers.

But on the second Saturday in July, Abigail thought only of the man she’d loved and their time together. She didn’t think of Chris as the FBI special agent brutally murdered on his honeymoon, nor did she let her mind wander to the stack of materials she’d collected herself for her own investigative file on his death.

She’d landed at their favorite restaurant on Newbury Street and asked to sit by the window, where she could see the outdoor tables, crowded with diners enjoying the warm July evening, and passersby, young lovers holding hands, older couples out for an evening, perhaps celebrating their own wedding day.

Abigail wasn’t celebrating, but she wasn’t mourning, either.

“I love you, Abigail. I’ll always love you.”

She wanted to crawl back in time and tell him…don’t! Don’t love me! Love someone else. Live, Chris. Live.

But, because she couldn’t, she ordered a glass of Pinot Noir and thought of her wedding flowers-hydrangeas, roses-and that sparkling Maine afternoon, and how handsome Christopher Browning was as he’d waited for her to walk up the aisle on the lawn of the quaint seaside inn where they were married.

“Excuse me-ma’am? Are you Detective Browning?”

Her waiter’s words yanked her out of her memories and dropped her back into the real world. “Why-”

“You have a phone call.”

A call? Why not reach her on her pager or cell phone? She eyed the waiter. He was young, unfamiliar. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know. I just-” He gestured back toward the bar. “Someone gave me the phone and said it was for you.”

“All right. Don’t go far, okay? I might want to talk to you.”

He nodded, retreating fast.

Abigail held the phone to her ear. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb your dinner.” The voice was unrecognizable, barely a whisper. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman speaking. “Are you having your husband’s favorite wine?”