“Not sooner?” Ashley asked, surprised.

“That would be unlikely.”

They were installed in adjoining rooms on the second floor, with panoramic views of the island, the bay and, in the distance, the peaks of Mt. Desert Island.

The Crockett house was large and open, the furnishings and lines spare, the colors those of the sea: grays, blues, muted greens, whites. The effect was at once inviting and lonely. Ashley opened her window and listened to the ocean and the gusting wind and smelled the salty, chilly air. Quiet and colorful and gorgeous, Maine was stunning in autumn.

She changed into sweat clothes, braided her hair tightly and knocked on Jeremy’s door.

“Yes?”

“I’m going for a run,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I bump into any spooks.”

“Ashley.”

But she was off down the hall, her stab at black humor quickly vanishing as she headed outside. She followed the path to the airstrip, working up a sweat. The exercise helped to revive her after the two-hour flight and the lack of sleep, but she couldn’t chase away the strange, silent sadness that seemed to permeate the island. Was it her? she wondered. Or was it the loneliness of the old man who made his home here, isolated, rude, undoubtedly embittered?

She jogged down to the guesthouse, painted white with blue shutters, but it was empty, unfurnished and unused. J. Land Crockett didn’t throw large parties; he never had more guests than the main house could handle.

She sprinted back to the house and did some cool-down stretches in a patch of sunlight on the back lawn. The air and exercise felt good, and she was confident she could handle the chairman of Crockett Industries.

As she mounted the back steps, heading inside, a movement drew her eye to the screened sun porch. An old man stood in the window. He was bundled up in a heavy sweater, his hair iron gray and wispy, his face toughened with age and a bitterness that was almost tangible.

His eyes met hers.

Then, without so much as a smile or a nod, he turned from the screened window and walked away.

Roger Shellingworth met Lillian Parker at the airport in Bar Harbor and, in a lavish cabin cruiser, ferried her over to Badger Rock Island. The boat had its own captain, a taciturn islander himself, who asked nothing from the billionaire but a fair wage for an honest day’s work; for his circumspectness, he was paid more than a fair wage.

Roger joined Lillian in the lounge and furnished her with a drink. Lillian found him obsequious and tired of him easily, but she had nothing particular against him. At least Crockett liked him. That was something, since Crockett liked so few people.

“Has Ashley Wakefield arrived yet?” she asked, feigning cheerfulness.

“Yes—rather early, in fact.”

Lillian wrapped her hair in a scarf and smiled into the wind. “Have she and Crockett met yet?”

Roger shook his head. “She brought a friend.”