LITMIR.BIZ

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he liked to say, 1947. He’d drag himself along with Quinn as she scavenged flea markets and yard sales for bargains—her mishmash of dishes, a Depression glass pitcher and tumblers, a copper pot for kindling, tables and chairs she’d refinished and painted.

      The cottage, ultimately, had helped end their relationship. He wanted to buy a boat—he said he might stand the occasional weekend in Yorkville if he had a boat. They’d bought two kayaks together. Then he said a kayak wasn’t the sort of boat he meant.

      Before long, he was staying in the city on weekends, and she’d drive out to the bay by herself.

      Yet, in spite of how easily and completely they’d drifted apart, Brian was the first to see that she needed to leave the Justice Department and strike out on her own. If she was content to spend a weekend stripping paint off an old chair, he reasoned, the day-to-day grind of her work was getting to her. She needed to take a risk and broaden her horizons. Dare to go out on her own.

      “I’m too young,” she’d argue. “I need more experience.”

      “You’re from a family of daredevils. Go on, Quinn. Jump.”

      It was another month after they broke up for good before she finally turned in her resignation.

      Her withering relationship with Brian had put an added strain on her friendship with Alicia, who couldn’t hide her disappointment, even irritation, at Quinn’s decisions. “First you dumped Brian, then you quit your job. What’s next, Quinn? Who’s next?”

      She hadn’t dumped Brian, and Alicia knew it. She’d exaggerated. What really got to her was how hard Lattimore had tried to get Quinn to stay at Justice—and then, once she’d made up her mind, how he continued to press her to come back. Last month, when he’d invited Quinn to an informal party at the Yorkville marina restaurant—his first social event without his wife—she had debated not going. The party was a good opportunity to network, but she also found herself wanting to go, hoping she could get Lattimore and Alicia to accept that she’d had to move on—it wasn’t a slap in their faces.

      Alicia was at the party. She and Quinn chatted outside on the dock, shivering in the cold as they’d danced around the recent tension between them. Whatever had bothered Alicia about Quinn’s behavior over recent months seemed to have evaporated.

      When she asked to use the cottage for a weekend getaway, Quinn hadn’t questioned Alicia’s motives. She’d simply handed her a key and told her to come and go at will.

      Not once that night or in the next weeks did she sense that Alicia was seriously troubled or burned out.

      “Alicia—where are you?”

      Quinn spoke quietly into a cold breeze, shuddering at a sudden sense of loneliness. She’d always felt safe, comfortable, at her cottage. Now, she pictured an osprey swooping down to a fluffy little duckling, heard Alicia screaming in horror and prayed that her friend was all right. But darkness was coming fast, and Quinn knew there was nothing more she could do tonight.

      8

      When she took her tea out to the porch in the morning, Quinn told herself that Alicia must have shown up at her apartment last night and by now was on her way to work, yesterday’s drama behind her. Quinn had tried calling, but her cell phone was balky. She’d walk down to the water after her tea and try again.

      She sat on a wicker rocker and pulled her feet up under her, cupping her mug with both hands to feel the warmth of the steaming tea. She had on her oversize sweater, a flannel shirt, jeans and just her socks. She expected the cool air and the cry of seagulls in the distance, the sounds of the tide washing in and out, but not, she thought, the very buff man in running shorts and a ratty T-shirt jogging on the road in front of her cottage.

      He didn’t seem to notice her. When he reached the end of her road, just past her cottage, he did a wide turn and paused briefly to stretch. His dark hair was cut very short, not quite a crewcut, and he had a thickset build, with a flat abdomen and muscular arms, shoulders and thighs. He was obviously a physical man, not some guy dragging himself out for an early-morning jog to lose a few pounds.

      When he reached the end of her stone walk, Quinn couldn’t resist calling out to him. “Nice morning for a run, isn’t it?”

      She didn’t seem to have startled him. He stopped, not even remotely out of breath as he squinted at her on the porch. “That it is. I’m new in town. You live here?”

      “It’s my weekend place.”

      “Today’s Tuesday.”

      She set her mug on a small table to one side of her rocker. “I was speaking in broad terms. My name’s Quinn—Quinn Harlowe.”

      “Huck Boone.”

      “Are you one of the new guys at Breakwater Security?”

      Just a flicker of hesitation. “That’s right.” He nodded toward the dead-end road and the barbed wire. “I guess we’re neighbors.”

      “No one but a seagull or an osprey would try to get to Breakwater through the marsh. It’s rough going. When did you get here?”

      “Over the weekend.”

      “This your first time jogging out this way?”

      “No, why?”

      He was calm and very direct, but obviously wondering why she was asking such questions. But she had dreamed about Alicia last night, not good dreams. “I got here late yesterday thinking a friend of mine who borrowed my cottage for the weekend might still be here. I guess I’m wondering if you’ve run into her.”

      “Was she supposed to be here?”

      “I don’t know where she’s supposed to be. It’s a long story.”

      “Hope you find her.”

      “Does that mean you haven’t seen her?”

      He paused a moment. “What’s her name?”

      “Alicia Miller. Her car’s not here, and none of her stuff’s here.”

      And no suicide note, Quinn thought. In a fit of paranoia, she’d searched the cottage before going to bed last night and found nothing that eased her mind about Alicia—nothing, either, that indicated she’d had a complete mental breakdown. The place was clean and tidied up, not even a dish left in the sink.

      Huck Boone, she noticed, hadn’t moved a muscle.

      “I’m sure she’s fine,” she said quickly.

      “You don’t sound sure.”

      Quinn found herself wanting to tell him about Alicia’s odd behavior yesterday, but she resisted. “I’m heading back to Washington this morning. If you do hear of anything—” She debated her options. “Can you hang on a second? I’ll give you my cell-phone number.”

      Boone shrugged. “Okay.”

      She ran inside and grabbed a notepad and pen off the coffee table, where she’d spread out files and papers and had tried to work last night. She quickly scrawled down her number, folding the small sheet in half as she returned to the porch.

      She walked along the stone path in her stocking feet, Boone meeting her halfway. His eyes, she saw, were a dark green, at least in the cool morning light of early April. Quinn tried to smile, but knew she didn’t quite manage. “Since you’re in private security…” She let her shoulders lift and fall in an exaggerated manner. “Never mind. I’m just covering all the bases I can think of, in case something’s happened to her.”

      “Why do you think anything’s happened to her?”

      “I don’t—”

      “Yes, you do.”

      She felt sudden tears in her eyes and hoped he would blame them on the cold air.

      “Does she know Oliver

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