The Widow - Carla Neggers [93]
Didn’t matter, Mattie thought. If he tried to move now, he’d never make it. He’d fall and crack his head open. He was exhausted and so damn confused, and there were just a few inches between him and a straight drop down to one of the crazy stone landings. He half expected to hear police sirens and helicopters, or see some big, nasty police dog drooling over him.
A drink would calm his nerves. He didn’t care about “working the program” or “one day at a time”—any of it. He’d reform when his life wasn’t so complicated.
He was facing too many unknowns, and was up against too many different agendas of smart, powerful people.
You’re the damn yardman.
And he was a slimeball. Mattie had betrayed his friends’ trust in him. He’d let alcohol and entitlement and resentment fuel his anger and screw up his judgment.
His eyes drooped and shut, and he felt his body go slack.
Would he fall off the ledge in his sleep?
Would the search dogs find him?
I don’t care.
Ah, Chris.
Did you lie there bleeding in the tide thinking I’d killed you?
Did you, my friend?
CHAPTER 28
An uneasy silence had settled in Abigail’s back room, which had finally been swept and wiped clean of any police presence. She’d ripped out the last of the old wallboard.
So many questions, she thought, tugging a red bandanna off her hair and shaking off the plaster dust.
Owen tied up a trash bag of the last of the debris and carried it back to the kitchen. Abigail watched him. He was a rock, as solid a man as she’d ever known. But how could she fall for him?
How could she fall for him here?
MattieYoung had camped out in his childhood friend’s garage. Where was he now? Doyle hadn’t known he was there. Lou Beeler obviously believed the chief’s explanation—with Katie gone for most of the summer, he and the boys didn’t use the garage on a daily basis. It wasn’t as if Doyle’d had time in recent days to mow the lawn or trim the roses. He simply hadn’t needed to be in the garage for anything.
As far as anyone could tell, Mattie had slipped in there for shelter. If he’d thought about knocking on Doyle’s door and turning himself in, fine, but he hadn’t done it.
He could have gone anywhere from Doyle’s house. Into Acadia National Park, onto the ocean. He could have slipped into someone else’s garage or broken into a vacant summer home, or he could have crawled under a rock somewhere.
He’d avoid the police and anyone who’d recognize him. Although news of his disappearance had hit in the media, tourists on Mt. Desert would be relatively insulated from such goings-on. Mattie could have walked past hikers and campers, and they wouldn’t necessarily pay attention or recognize him as the man the police were looking for.
Abigail walked out to the porch. She and Owen had driven around, trying to spot Mattie. They’d checked his party spot in the old foundation. Nothing.
It would be a warmer, more humid night than last night, but cool for July, very cool in comparison to Boston. Far out on the water, she could see the lights of expensive yachts. Did one of them belong to Jason Cooper? Had he chucked his family’s problems and gone off to enjoy his wealth, be alone?
She became aware of Owen’s presence behind her, on the other side of the screen door. “I’ve changed in the past seven years,” she said without looking around at him. “I haven’t wanted to admit it. I keep thinking that if I did, I’d also have to acknowledge that Chris might not want me the way I am now.”
The door creaked open and shut. Owen brushed away a mosquito floating in front of her face. “His death pulled you up off the path you were on and hurled you back down onto a different one. But you’re the same Abigail.”
“I don’t blame Doyle Alden and the Coopers for resenting me.”
“You’ve had every right to push for answers.”
“I’ve done more than push for answers. Every time I come here I’ve reminded them of Chris. I won’t let them forget him.” She pushed her hands through her hair, her short curls more pronounced with the increased humidity. “I don