Police Chief Caleb Hunter leaned back behind his desk, big and imposing in a wrinkled blue uniform. The boy—Zachary—
hunched in a chair before him, face sullen and eyes miserable.
The chief shot a look at the open door, mild annoyance drawing his brows together. “Morgan. I have to ask you to wait
outside.”
Morgan felt a pressure against his leg and glanced down. The little girl had attached herself to him, one arm clinging to his
knee, the other gripping the doll. Shaking her loose would be undignified and time-consuming, Morgan decided. He could
tolerate her touch for the time it would take him to sort things out.
He locked eyes with the policeman. “What are you doing with him?”
“None of your business,” Caleb replied evenly. “Edith! I told you no interruptions.”
“You want a linebacker out here, call the Patriots.”
Morgan looked at Zachary. The boy slouched deeper in his chair, his mouth sulky, his gaze defiant. Beneath the kiss-myass attitude, he stank of fear and shame, his muscles coiled with animal tension.
“What happened?” he asked the boy.
“That‟s what I‟m trying to find out,” Caleb said. “Now unless you‟re his mother or his lawyer, get the hell out.”
“I‟m his father.”
Silence crashed over the room like a wave.
The police chief rubbed his face with his hand. “Well, shit. That puts a different spin on things. Let‟s see what his mother
has to say.”
Her son had been picked up for questioning.
Her daughter was in the care of strangers at the police station.
It was Liz‟s worst nightmare.
Well, not the worst. She‟d survived the worst three years ago, watching Ben lose his hair, his strength, his voice . . . his life.
But the feeling she was wading through a bad dream, the sick helplessness in the pit of her stomach, the struggle to make
sense of the unacceptable, those were the same.
“ There’s been some trouble .” Edith Paine‟s brusque Yankee voice replayed in her head. “ Chief picked up that boy of
yours down by the ferry . . . Need to answer some questions before you take him home. ”
No one was hurt, Liz told herself. That was the important thing. Whatever else had happened, they would deal with it.
That‟s what she did. Deal with things. She instructed Nancy to reschedule her afternoon appointments and drove to the police
station, a hard ball of panic pounding in her chest.
She was the mommy. She was a doctor. She could fix this, whatever it was.
She parked the car and bypassed the required ramp to march up the town hall steps. In another mood, at another time, she
might have been charmed or at least reassured by the small town vibe of the place, the old-fashioned wooden counter and
modern fluorescent lights, the community bulletin board papered with wanted posters and bake sale flyers, city regulations and
hand-lettered signs: HOUSE CLEANING. PET SITTING. DEEP SEA FISHING. ORGANIC JAM.
Her gaze swept the lobby. A small room housed a coffeepot and a copy machine. A row of straight-backed chairs lined up
against one wall, a discarded candy bar on one seat.
But no Zack.
No Emily.
Taking a deep breath, she approached the counter. She had met Edith Paine before. The town clerk had served on the
search committee responsible for hiring the new island doctor.
Liz struggled to paste on a professional smile, but her lips refused to cooperate. Her hand trembled on the strap of her
purse. “Edith, can you tell me—”
Edith‟s eyes glinted behind her glasses. “The party‟s in there.”
Liz followed her gaze down the hall, and her wildly beating heart stopped, frozen in her chest. The blood drained from her
head.
Morgan. She recognized the strong flow of his back, the muscled curve of his shoulders. Above his black jeans and black
T-shirt, his hair looked almost white. His voice was deep, cool, annoyed.
And clinging to the long, black line of his leg was her daughter, Emily.
Trouble, Edith had said on the phone.