“I used them as my guinea pigs.” At Vaughn’s raised eyebrow, I give a laugh. “I’m a cookbook author. I’m writing a book about traditional New England foods and I’ve been testing recipes. Billy and Ned were always happy to sample the results.”

    “Did either one of them ever make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No. I trusted them enough to let them come and go even when I wasn’t here.”

“They had a key to the house?”

“They knew where to find it. I left the spare key for them on top of the doorjamb.”

“So one of them could have made a copy of that key.”

I shake my head in bewilderment. “Why are you asking about them?”

“They were also working in this house while Ms. Nielson lived here.”

“Do you actually know Billy and Ned?”

“Do you, ma’am?”

That makes me pause. In truth, how can we truly know anyone? “They never gave me a reason not to trust them,” I say. “And Billy, he’s just a kid.”

“He’s twenty-three years old,” says Perry.

How odd that they already know Billy’s age. Now I do, as well. They don’t need to point out the obvious: that twenty-three-year-old men are capable of violence. I think of the muffins and stews and cakes I prepared for them, and how Billy’s eyes would light up whenever I appeared with new treats for them to sample. Was I feeding a monster?

“And the second carpenter? What do you know about Mr. Haskell?” His gaze offers no clue to what he’s thinking, but his questions have veered into disturbing territory. Suddenly we’re not talking about faceless intruders, but about people I know and like.

“I know he’s a master carpenter. Just look around, at what he’s done with this house. Ned told me he started working for the Sherbrooke family years ago. As a handyman for the owner’s aunt.”

“That would be the late Aurora Sherbrooke?”

“Yes. Why would he still be working for the Sherbrooke family if there’d been any problems? And he’s more than just a carpenter. He’s also a well-regarded artist. The gallery downtown sells his carvings of birds.”

    “So we hear,” says Perry, sounding unimpressed.

“You should take a look at his work. His pieces are even sold in galleries in Boston.” I look back and forth at the two detectives. “He’s an artist,” I repeat, as if that excludes him as a suspect. Artists create, they don’t destroy. They don’t kill.

“Did Mr. Haskell ever say or do anything that bothered you? Struck you as inappropriate or made you uneasy?”

Something has changed here. Both of these men have leaned ever so slightly forward, their eyes fixed on me. “Why are you asking about Ned?”

“These are routine questions.”

“They don’t sound routine.”

“Please, just answer the question.”

“All right, then. Ned Haskell never once made me uncomfortable. He never scared me. I like the man, and I trusted him enough to give him access to my house. Now tell me why you’re focused on him.”

“We follow every lead. It’s our job.”

“Has Ned done something wrong?”

“We can’t comment,” says Vaughn, an answer that tells me everything. He closes his notebook. “We’ll be in touch if we have other questions. In the meantime, do you still keep your house key above the doorjamb?”

“It’s there right now. I just haven’t taken it down.”

“I suggest you do that now. And while you’re at home, use the dead bolt. I notice you have one.”

The men head to the front door. I follow them, so many of my questions still unanswered. “What about Charlotte’s car?” I ask. “She had a car, didn’t she? Have you found it yet?”

“No.”

“So the killer stole it.”

    “We don’t know where it is. It could be out of state by now. Or it could be lying at the bottom of some lake.”

“Then it could have been just a carjacking, couldn’t it? Someone stole her car and threw her body into the bay.” I hear the note of desperation in my voice. “It could have happened while she was driving out of town. Not here, not in this house.”

Detective Vaughn pauses on the front porch and looks at me with those coolly enigmatic eyes. “Lock your door, Ms. Collette,” is all he says.

That is the first thing I do after they drive away. I turn the dead bolt and walk around the house, checking that all the windows are latched. The storm clouds that have been darkening all afternoon suddenly rip open with a clap of thunder. In the sea room, I stand at the window watching rain sheet down the glass. The air itself feels charged and dangerous, and when I look at my arms, I see the hairs are standing up. Lightning streaks from the sky and the whole house shakes in the instantaneous thunderclap.

Any minute now, the power could go out.

I pick up the cellphone to check how much battery life is left, and whether it can last the night without charging. Only then do I see there’s a voicemail, and I remember the phone call I ignored when I was talking to the detectives.

I play the message and am startled to hear the voice of Ned Haskell.

Ava, you’ll probably be hearing things about me, things that aren’t true. None of it is true. I want you to know I haven’t done anything wrong. This isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. Not if I can help it.

I stare at my phone, wondering if I should tell the police about his call. Wondering too, if that would be a violation of his trust. Of all people, why am I the one he reached out to?

A bolt of lightning spears the sea. I back away from the window and feel the clap of answering thunder deep in my bones, as if my chest is a roaring kettledrum. Ned’s message unsettles me, and as the storm rages, I make one more round of the house, again checking windows and doors.

    That night, I do not sleep well.

As lightning slashes the darkness and thunder rumbles, I lie awake in the same bed where a murdered woman slept. I think back to every interaction I ever had with Ned Haskell, and the memories play like a slideshow in my head. Ned on the widow’s walk, his arm muscles bulging as he swings the hammer. Ned grinning at me over the bowl of beef stew I’ve ladled out for him. I think of what goes into the toolbox of a carpenter, all the blades and vises and screwdrivers, and how items meant for shaping wood can so easily be put to other purposes.

Then I think of the art gallery reception and how Ned had smiled so sheepishly as he stood beside his whimsical bird carvings. How can someone who creates such charming art grasp a woman’s throat and squeeze the life out of her?

“Do not be afraid.”

I glance up, startled by the voice in the darkness. A flash of distant lightning illuminates the room and every detail of his face is instantly seared into my memory. Black curls as unruly as storm-tossed waves. A face of rough-hewn granite. But tonight I glimpse something new, something I did not see in the portrait of Captain Brodie that hangs in the historical society. Now I see weariness in his eyes, the weather-beaten fatigue of a man who has sailed too many oceans and now seeks only a calm harbor.

I reach up and touch days-old stubble on his jaw. So this was how Death found you, I think. Exhausted by hours at the helm, your ship battered by the sea, your crew swept away by waves. How I long to be the safe harbor he seeks, but I am a century and a half too late.

“Sleep soundly, dear Ava. Tonight I will stand watch.”

“I’ve missed you.”

He presses a kiss to my head and his breath is warm in my hair. The breath of the living. “When you need me most, here I am. Here I will always be.” He settles beside me on the bed and the mattress sags under his weight. How can this man not be real when I can feel his arms around me, his coat against my cheek?

    “You’re different tonight,” I whisper. “So kind. So gentle.”

“I am whatever you need me to be.”

“But who are you? Who is the real Captain Brodie?”

“Like all men, I am both good and bad. Cruel and kind.” He cups my face in a weatherworn hand that tonight offers only comfort, but it’s the same hand that has swung a whip and shackled my wrists.

“How will I know which man to expect?”

“Is that not what you desire, the unexpected?”

“Sometimes you scare me.”

“Because I take you to dangerous places. I offer you a glimpse of the darkness. I dare you to take the first step, and the next.” He strokes my face as gently as if he is stroking a child. “But not tonight.”

“What happens tonight?”

“Tonight you sleep. Be unafraid,” he whispers. “I will let no harm come to you.”

And that night I do sleep, safe in the circle of his arms.

Twenty-One