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“No. You look like you had a bullet whiz past your head a couple of days ago.”
He shrugged. “You still think I’m sexy.”
“Where did you get the idea—”
“Uh-uh. You can’t take it back. I heard you whisper it when we were in the sack—”
“Not so loud!”
He grinned broadly. “Shy?”
“I just don’t need to be reminded. You’re the lone-wolf type, O’Malley. Two seconds with you, and people know it.”
“Lone-wolf type? What the hell’s that? I like women.”
“My point, exactly. Women. Plural.”
He stared at her as if she’d just turned chartreuse.
“I don’t want to fall for a guy like that,” she told him.
“Hey. Lone-wolf. A guy like that. I think I’m being categorized here. You’re not the only one who did some talking that night—”
“Yours was just of the moment. You were pretending to be what I wanted you to be.”
He stared at her. “Stewart, where are you getting this stuff?”
But after his recent brush with death, Jess didn’t want to get into an intimate, emotional talk with him. She didn’t regret their night together, but she’d made the mistake of letting him know that she was attracted to him on a level that just wasn’t smart. He’d responded in kind, but she knew better than to take what he’d said to heart.
No wonder he’d run off to Nova Scotia.
She squared her shoulders. “I followed you up here as a concerned colleague, nothing more.”
“Uh-uh.” He sounded totally disbelieving. “You didn’t kiss me like a concerned colleague—”
“Well, you’d been shot at. I thought I could indulge you that once.”
“It was a charity kiss?”
“Something like that.”
He grinned at her. “Then I’ll have to figure out a way to get another.”
CHAPTER THREE
O’Malley dragged Jess out for dinner and a scenic drive through beautiful Lunenburg with its restored historic houses, narrow streets and picturesque waterfront, then on along the coast, past lighthouses and coves and cliffs. When they arrived back at the Wild Raspberry, Jess found a book in the library and settled on the front porch. She looked content, not so worried about him. O’Malley felt less jumpy, less as if he could—and should—run clear across Canada and not come up for air until he got to Vancouver.
Not that the dark-eyed Boston prosecutor on the front porch had a calming effect on him.
Suddenly agitated, he stormed down the steps and walked across the road to the water. The tide was going out, seagulls wheeling overhead, a cool breeze bringing with it the smell of the ocean. The sun had dipped low on the other side of the island, and dusk was coming slowly.
He spotted Marianne Wells sitting on a large boulder, her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms around her shins as she stared out at the Atlantic. Not wanting to disturb her solitude, he veered off in the other direction, heading down to a shallow tide pool forming amidst the wave-smoothed rocks as the water receded.
“Detective O’Malley?” Marianne jumped up off her boulder and trotted down to him, her agility on the rocky shore impressive. He paused, waiting for her to catch up to him. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
She didn’t jump right in with what was on her mind, but nodded at the tide pool. “It’s amazing—it never changes. I’ve come out here every day since I got here. I had the house, friends—hope. I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“I understand you’re a survivor of domestic abuse.”
“My husband started out by isolating me from my family and friends. He worked on my self-esteem, belittling me, telling me I was ugly, stupid, going into rages when I made even the tiniest mistake—” She took a breath, but didn’t look away from him. “He didn’t hit me at first. That came later.”
“How long were you with him?”
“We met a year before we married. We were married for seven years.”
“No children?”
She shook her head. “That helped when it came to making a clean break with my abuser. Visitation access often becomes another way for abusers to continue to control women. And children…what they see, their own lack of control…”
“It’s a vicious cycle,” O’Malley said.
“I gave up a lot when I decided to do something about my situation. There’s no denying that I didn’t. It’s not just challenging the violence that takes courage, but deciding to give up the status quo and embrace an uncertain future.”
“I’ve been to too many domestic-abuse crime scenes. Are you worried this guy’ll come back?”
“A tiny bit less with each day he doesn’t. I’m prepared for that fear to go on. I’ve found ways to live with it. I have a lot of support.”
“You’ve done a good job with your place here.”
She smiled, but without looking at him. “I didn’t think I could do it. I thought I’d fail. A part of me believed he was right about me. But I got up each morning, and I did what I could. Then I got up the next morning, and I did a little more. Bit by bit, it came together.”
“You deserve a lot of credit.”
“Taking that first step was so scary and difficult. I was in the local library—I thought if I could go online and find some information, maybe it’d help.” She crossed her arms on her chest, against the breeze. “I found the Shelternet Web site. It has a clickable map of Canada with links to local shelters, detailed information on how to make a safety plan, stories of other abused women. I sat there and read every word.”
“How long before you went to a shelter?”
“A month. Abuse—it does things to your head.”
“But you did it,” O’Malley said.
She ran the toe of her sandal over a hunk of slimy seaweed. “My life was as big a wreck as this place was when I bought it. But I was living a violent-free life. That gave me such hope, such energy. It still does. I’m taking care of myself for the first time in a very long time. That matters.”
“It matters a lot.”
“I’d always dreamed of opening a bed-and-breakfast on the coast. I love it out here. I live in the guest house—it’s perfect for me—and have the house for guests. That might change one day, or it might not. I’m just enjoying the moment. And I’ve done exactly what I want with the place.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “I decided—I like pink. Raspberry, watermelon, orange-pink, petal pink. I didn’t have to explain it to anyone or excuse it or pretend I liked chartreuse or rust when I like pink.”
O’Malley smiled at her. “I’m not as big on pink as you are.”
She laughed. “I appreciate your honesty. Anyway, I don’t mean to bore you—”
“You’re not boring me,” he said sincerely.
She angled a look at him. “That’s why you do police work, isn’t it? Because you like people, you like to figure them out?”
“My father was a cop. I knew the work suited me.”
“Jessica? She says she was a police officer, too.”
“For a few years.”
“Her father—”
“Investment banker. Very white bread. Her mother is a volunteer for a bunch of different charities. They almost had a heart attack when she got accepted to the police academy.”
“But they supported her decision? They didn’t try to stop her?”
“They were the proudest parents at her graduation.”
“Good for them.”
O’Malley knew Marianne hadn’t joined him at the tide pool to chitchat. “Look—”
“I think someone’s snooping on me,” she blurted.
“What do you mean, snooping? Spying? Stalking you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that overt. There’ve been these odd incidents.” She took a breath, not going on.
“Like what?” he prodded.
She squatted down, dipping a hand into the cold water, her back to him. “I don’t imagine things. I don’t make things out to be worse than they are. The fears I have—they’re real fears.”
“You think your ex-husband is in the area?”
“Let’s say I fear it.”
But she didn’t go on, seemed unable to. O’Malley walked around to the other side of the tide pool and squatted down, noticing that she had grabbed something from the bottom of the pool. “What do you have?”
“Starfish,” she said, and smiled as she lifted it out of the water and showed it to him. “I used to love to collect things from tide pools when I was a little girl. I’d put everything back, of course. Once—once I forgot, and I was mortified for days.”
A sensitive soul. “I understand.”
Her eyes met his, just for an instant, and she replaced the starfish back in the water. “When I got up this morning, before you and Jessica arrived, I was positive someone had been through the Saratoga trunk in the living room during the night. It’s an antique, from my great-grandmother.”
“The living room’s open to guests?”
She nodded. “But no one—it was just John Summers here last night. And he wouldn’t be interested in the contents of an old trunk. He’s a hiker. He goes out every day for hours. He pays me extra to load up his daypack with lunch and snacks.”
“What’s in the trunk?”
“Nothing of any value to anyone but me. Family photo albums and scrapbooks of my life before I married.” She spoke clearly, directly, without any hint of trying to hide something. “Some old books and diaries.”
“Your diaries?”
“Oh, no. My great-grandmother’s. She and my great-grandfather came to Nova Scotia from Scotland.”
“Have you read her diary?”
“Bits and pieces. It feels like prying, frankly.”
O’Malley shrugged. “That’s half of what I do for a living. What made you think someone had been in the trunk? Was the latch open, something like that?”
“It was moved and—” She thought a moment as she got to her feet. “I’d draped a throw over it last night. It was on the couch this morning.”
“Maybe Summers couldn’t sleep and came downstairs to read for a while, get a change of scenery, and used the throw to keep his feet warm.”
“It’s possible.” She smiled. “I like that theory.”
“Any other incidents?”
“A few more like that.”
“All with personal items?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing that’d tempt you to call the police?”
“No, not yet. I just feel—I don’t know how to describe it. Like somebody’s looking for something, prying into my life, or if not my life, my family’s past. It’s a very strange feeling.”
“Anything exciting about your family’s past?”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Was one of your ancestors secretly married to the Prince of Wales or something?”
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.”
“But like something else?”
“Well—” She shook her head, laughing a little. “My great-grandmother lived in this area during a famous, tragic incident when a Halifax heiress ran off with a no-account foreign sailor. Irish, I think. Their boat went down in a storm just beyond the cove here.”
“They were killed?”
“Drowned.”
