The Widow - Carla Neggers [41]
Emotion was what got Doe Garrison killed.
It was what got Chris Browning killed.
Mattie had heard Jason Cooper explain as much to his kids around the kitchen table. Doe got herself worked up over a minor squabble, and she drowned. Chris got mad because of what happened to his wife, and he was shot.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell the FBI you slept with the town drunk.” His voice caught, annoying him. He didn’t care about Grace anymore—he’d stopped caring a long, long time ago. “And I won’t tell them you were in love with one of their own.”
“You’re odious, Mattie.” She didn’t raise her voice. “I want to have sympathy for you and remember what we had those few months with affection, without regret. But I look at you, and I just want to be sick.”
“That’s it? You want to be sick? You don’t want to club me on the head with a rock or shoot me in the heart?”
“I wouldn’t waste my time.”
She crossed her arms tight over her chest and stalked back out to the road.
“Did you drive over here?” Mattie asked her calmly.
“I parked around the corner. I told my father and Linc that I was running an errand.”
“Not worried the FBI’s following you?”
“No.” She paused, giving him a long, cool look. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Say it enough times and maybe you’ll believe it.”
He watched her swallow and thought he saw a glimmer of a tear, but she turned and walked away.
The woman had everything. Brains, poise, a sense of decency. Money. A future. But she couldn’t be honest with herself.
Mattie headed up his front walk. He was no judge of character, but he could recognize another liar.
Grace lied to other people—about him, for one—but most of her lies, the worst of her lies, were to herself. Like now, he thought. She was lying to herself about just how scared she was—of him, of her own past.
Had she guessed what kind of trouble Linc was in?
Mattie told himself he didn’t give a damn. Grace Cooper didn’t care about him. Fine. He didn’t care about her, either.
He headed into his little rented house. It could fit into the Coopers’ kitchen—of their summer house. Mattie had never seen any of their other houses. Jason’s place in New York, Grace’s in Georgetown, Ellis’s in Alexandria. But as well-off as they were, Mattie didn’t envy them. He didn’t want to be a Cooper.
He wanted to be a photographer.
He wanted a fresh start.
But as he pushed open his front door, he felt a prick of guilt at how he was getting it.
CHAPTER 13
“Your husband had secrets.”
Abigail sat up in bed, fully awake after grabbing the phone on the second ring. “Who is this?”
“Just listen. Chris’s secrets got him killed. He wouldn’t talk to you. He wouldn’t talk to anyone.”
“Tell me more. Please.” She struggled to keep her tone firm but nonthreatening. “Don’t hang up.”
“He didn’t want to see you hurt.”
“Hurt how? Physically—or emotionally?”
There was no hesitation on the other end. “Both.”
“So he didn’t tell me these secrets?”
“He couldn’t. He loved you.”
She leaned back against her pillows and headboard, the early morning sun angling into her small bedroom through gaps in the curtains. The caller’s voice was disguised, as before. “How did you get my number here?” she asked. “It’s not listed.”
“Be careful who you trust while you’re in Maine.”
“Are you here? Are you watching me?”
“You have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. That’s all.”
“Why would anyone else get hurt? What’s going on? I need more information.”
“Your husband was an FBI agent and a Mainer. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t—I haven’t. Why don’t we meet? Just the two of us—”
The caller cut her off with a short, sarcastic laugh. “I don’t think so, Detective.”
Click.
Abigail glanced at her bedside clock. Five-oh-nine. She hung up, then picked up again and dialed Lou Beeler’s home number. He answered on the first ring. She tried smiling into the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’re already on your second cup of coffee—”
“Third,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I had another call,” she said, and told him.
When she finished, Lou sighed. “I’ll be there