Andrew had spent the entire previous day cleaning the cottage, both inside and out. Kate kept trying to help, and he had to keep insisting she get her butt to bed and enjoy her time as a passive observer. She was as stubborn as a mule. Every time he left the living room to tackle something, he’d rush back in to find her washing dishes or attempting to order his kindling pile. He’d command her to return to her spot on the bed and get back to work. The bouncing back and forth was exhausting, Kate never realizing that her attempts to help actually made things more difficult.

But she was clearly happier than he’d seen her since the day he’d carried her over the cottage’s threshold. There was no way he was going to harsh that mellow.

When Kate called the cops a few days ago, he’d rushed outside to dispose of the dead rabbit and cover up the squirrels. His fear was they would talk about it in front of Kate and how much more that would upset her. If having the deputy approach the teens he thought were harassing them didn’t work, Andrew could always reveal it to him later.

For once, good fortune was on their side. The night visitations had stopped, and Andrew had bought a shovel from town and buried the bodies, feeling like he was in some kind of horror movie, the day of the burial dark and gloomy, with thunder rolling on the horizon.

So now he sat in his car outside Portland International Jetport, waiting for Ryker and Nikki to arrive. Before he left for Portland, he’d gone to the market and stocked up on enough food and drinks to last a week. He’d even bought a portable grill, the old kind his father used to take with them on picnics when Andrew was a kid. It had been a long time since he’d cooked with charcoal and lighter fluid. When he’d bought a gas grill for his own house, his father had remarked, “Food won’t taste as good. Everyone knows proper barbecue needs a hint of that lighter fluid flavor.”

He’d even found what looked like a little pop-up store two towns over that sold fireworks. As it turned out, you could buy and use fireworks in the majority of towns in Maine, Bridge Mills being one of them. He’d spent a hundred dollars on some colorful rockets. He wasn’t a fan of the big-explosions ordinance, like M-80s and cherry bombs. Neither was Kate. It would be nice to set a few rockets off by the dock, the sparkles illuminating the darkened lake.