The Widow - Carla Neggers [74]
Love as a verb.
I’ve lied. I’ve misled. I’ve cried. I’ve killed.
Ways of loving. All of them.
I feel so free, writing in this stream of consciousness manner. Allowing myself to put aside all my inhibitions.
I don’t want to kill again but to say I won’t is to say my ability to love has weakened.
And it hasn’t.
It won’t.
Not ever.
CHAPTER 23
Wherever Mattie was, he’d be there through the night. Abigail didn’t like the idea, but who did? The warm day had turned cool with nightfall and the fog. If he didn’t have proper attire, a good blanket, water, food—if he panicked and got lost, or kept running in the woods—then anything could happen.
She watched Owen, crouched down on one knee, build a fire in his woodstove. She’d pulled a fleece throw over her as she sat in one of his fireside chairs, but he showed no sign of cold or fatigue. “If you’d climbed Cadillac and got whacked today, you’d be as wiped out as I am,” she said.
“You didn’t climb up Cadillac. You drove up.”
“I walked all over the summit. And it was freaking dawn. That counts.”
He looked back over his shoulder at her. “The only reason you’re shivering is because of what you have on.”
“Not enough?”
He turned back to his fire-building. “Depends on how you look at that one.”
She gave him a shove in the back with her foot. She’d left her wet shoes at the door. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re in the wrong clothes for charging through the woods in these conditions.”
“And you?”
He struck a match. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-uh. You’re in jeans. Jeans aren’t the best choice for cool, wet conditions. They’re not good insulators, especially when wet. See? Not bad for a city cop.”
The kindling and rolled-up newspapers caught fire, bright flames crackling as Owen shut the screen and leaned back on his outstretched arms, stretching out his legs. His toes were almost in the fire. He’d taken off his shoes, too. His feet struck her as casual, intimate.
They’d joined the search for Mattie, but the trail was cold, visibility marginal. Any sign of him—footsteps, trampled plants—ended after a few feet. He could be anywhere.
“Who knows about Mattie,” Abigail said. “I’ve never seen him in anything approaching clothing appropriate for a night out in the elements.”
“He could have supplies with him.”
“Or he could be shacked up with a friend, or hiding on some derelict pal’s clunker of a boat. He could have caught a ride off the island with someone…”
“Abigail—”
“I’m just saying.” She breathed out a sigh. “I don’t want to find him dead, Owen. No one does.”
“Do you have any clue what he’s up to?”
She shook her head. “I wish I did.”
“Think he’s your caller?”
“I don’t know. The caller supposedly wants to help—” She broke off. “Whatever Mattie’s doing, it’s not helping.”
“Your caller—whether it’s Mattie or someone else—isn’t helping, either. Just stirring the pot.”
“Good point.”
The local and state police and the two FBI agents had all departed from Ellis Cooper’s house. Ellis had pointedly refused to have any cruisers posted in his driveway, insisting to Lou Beeler that he wasn’t afraid of Mattie—that it wasn’t as if Mattie had done anything horrible—if he’d done anything at all.
“Ellis might as well have said I was bad luck,” Abigail went on.
“He’s upset.”
“Jason and Grace weren’t much better. But I only came up here after I got the first call. Maybe whatever Mattie’s up to has more to do with what the Coopers have going on than with me. The appointment, the sale of the house—they could be the catalyst.”
“Could be,” Owen said.
She slipped her arms over his shoulders and down his chest, leaning forward and touching her cheek to his. “You don’t care, do you?”
He grabbed her hand. “At the moment, no.” And in one move, he’d lifted her off her chair and over his shoulders, onto his lap, his arms circled around her. He grinned. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t put up a fight.”
“Fight? I’m injured.”
“I thought it was just a few scratches.”
She draped her arms around his neck. “It is. Traipsing over hill and dale after Mattie didn’t hurt my leg. It’s a little