"I used the telescope earlier," she told him as they stepped outside. "It's a good spot for it."

"I saw some crime-scene techs poking around by the lighthouse."

"We don't have murder as a rule in Whiskey Beach, and fatal accidents don't draw tourists. It's important to be thorough. And the more thorough they are, the better it is for you."

"Maybe so, but I'm connected. Somehow. The local cop asked if there were guns in the house. I hedged because I had this sudden thought that maybe whoever broke in took something out of the gun collection to shoot Duncan."

"G.o.d. I never thought of that."

"You've never been the prime suspect in a murder investigation. Anyway, they're all there, in place, locked in their cases. When they get the search warrant, and they will, they may take them in for testing. But they'll already know none of the weapons in Bluff House killed Duncan."

"Because they'll know what kind of caliber was used, and maybe even what kind of gun. I've watched my share of CSI-type TV," she added. "They're all antique-type guns in there. I doubt Duncan was shot with a musket or a dueling pistol."

"Odds are low."

"Regardless, we're undoing our earlier work talking about cops and murder." She shook her hair back when they reached the base of the beach steps, lifted her face to the softening blue of the evening sky. "Do you want to know why I moved to Whiskey Beach? Why it's my place?"

"Yeah, I do."

"I'm going to tell you. It's a good beach-walking story, though I have to start back a ways, to give you the background."

"One question first, because I've been trying to figure it out. What did you do before you came here and started your ma.s.sage/yoga/jewelry-making/housecleaning business?"

"You mean professionally? I was the marketing director for a nonprofit out of D.C."

He looked at her-rings on her fingers, hair flying everywhere. "Okay, that one didn't make the top ten on my list."

She gave him an elbow poke. "I have an MBA from Northwestern."

"Seriously?"

"Deadly serious, and I'm jumping ahead. My mother is an amazing woman. An incredibly smart, dedicated, brave, involved woman. She had me while she was in grad school, and my father decided it was all more than he signed on for, so they split when I was about two. He's not really a part of my life."

"I'm sorry."

"So was I for a while, but I got over it. My mother's a human rights attorney. We traveled a lot. She took me with her whenever she could. When she couldn't, I stayed with my aunt-her sister-or my maternal grandparents. But for the most part I went with her. I got a h.e.l.l of an education and worldview."

"Wait a minute. Wait." The sudden flash had him gaping at her. "Is your mother Jane Walsh?"

"Yes. You know her?"

"Of. Jesus Christ, Jane Walsh? She won the n.o.bel Peace Prize."

"I said she was an amazing woman. I wanted to be her when I grew up, but who wouldn't?" Abra lifted her arms high for a moment, closed her eyes to welcome the wind. "She's one in a million. One in tens of millions from my point of view. She taught me love and compa.s.sion, courage and justice. Initially I thought to follow directly in her footsteps, get a law degree, but G.o.d, it so wasn't for me."

"Was she disappointed?"

"No. Another very essential lesson she taught me was to follow your own mind and heart." As they walked, she wound her arm with his. "Was your father disappointed you didn't follow his?"

"No. We're both lucky there."

"Yes, we are. So I went for the MBA, tailored toward working in the nonprofit sector. I was good at it."

"I bet you were."

"I felt I was making a contribution, and maybe it didn't always feel like the perfect fit, but close enough. I liked the work, I liked my life, my circle of friends. I met Derrick at a fund-raiser I spearheaded. Another lawyer. I must be drawn to the field."

She paused to look out over the sea. "G.o.d, it's beautiful here. I look at the sea every day and think how lucky I am to be here, to see this, to feel it. My mother's in Afghanistan right now, working with and for Afghani women. And I know we're both exactly where we're meant to be, doing what we're meant to do. But a few years ago, I was in D.C., with a closetful of professional suits, an overloaded desk, a crowded appointment book, and Derrick seemed like the right choice at the right time."

"But he wasn't."

"In some strange way, he was. Smart, charming, intense, ambitious. He understood my work, I understood his. The s.e.x was satisfying, the conversations interesting. The first time he hit me, I let myself believe it was a terrible mistake, an aberration, just a bad moment resulting from stress."

Because she felt Eli stiffen, she rubbed her free hand on the arm wound with hers. "I saw his temper as pa.s.sion, and his possessiveness as a kind of flattery. The second time he hit me, I left because once might be a terrible mistake, but twice is the start of a pattern."

Reaching over, he closed his hand over the one she'd laid on his arm. "Some people don't see the pattern when they're in it."

"I know. I talked to a lot of women in support groups, and understand how you can be persuaded to accept the apology, or begin to believe you deserve the abuse. I got out, and quickly."

"You didn't report it."

Now she sighed. "No, I didn't. I wanted the leaving to be enough. Why damage his career or put myself into a scandal? I took a short leave of absence rather than explain the black eye to coworkers and friends, and I came here for a week."

"To Whiskey Beach?"

"Yeah. I'd come here with my mother years ago, then again with my aunt and her family. I had good memories here, so I rented a cottage and walked the beach, gave myself the time, I thought, to heal."

"You didn't tell anyone?"

"Not then. I'd made a mistake, and told myself I'd fixed the mistake and to get on with my life. And, as foolish as it was, I was embarra.s.sed. After my leave, I went back to work, but nothing seemed exactly right. Friends started asking what was going on, that Derrick had contacted them, told them I'd had a breakdown, which put me in what I considered the humiliating position of telling them he'd hit me, and I'd left him."

"But he'd planted seeds."

She glanced up at him. "It's another pattern, isn't it? Yes, he'd planted seeds, enough some sprouted. He knew a lot of people, and he was smart, and he was angry. He dropped little hints here and there about me being unstable. And he stalked me. The thing about being a stalkee is not always knowing it's happening. I didn't. Not until I started dating again, casually. Very casually. Look."

She pointed to a pelican, soaring out over the water, then his fast dive for his evening meal.

"I try to feel sorry for the fish, but I just love watching the pelicans. They have the oddest shape, and it strikes me as ungainly-like a moose-then they compact that way and dive down like a spear."

Eli turned her to face him. "He hurt you again."

"Oh G.o.d, yes. In more ways than one. I should finish it. No need for all the minute details. My boss got anonymous notes about my behavior, my supposed abuse of drugs, alcohol, s.e.x, my using s.e.x to influence donors. Enough of them he eventually called me in, questioned me. And again I had to humiliate myself-or so it felt at the time-by telling him about Derrick. My superior spoke with his superior, and all h.e.l.l broke loose."

Now she took a long, careful breath. "Nasty little things at first. Having my tires slashed, my car keyed. My phone ringing in the middle of the night, repeatedly, with hang ups, finding someone canceled my reservations for lunch or dinner. My computers, work and home, were hacked. The man I was seeing casually had his car windows smashed, and anonymous complaints-ugly ones-sent to his boss. We stopped seeing each other. It wasn't serious, and it seemed easier."

"What did the cops do?"

"They talked to him, and he denied everything. He's very convincing. He told them he'd ended things with me because I was too possessive and had gotten violent. He claimed to be worried about me and hoped I'd get help."