February in Maine. It sounded like the title of a song; like something that Bing Crosby or maybe Nat King Cole would have crooned over. Those old masters would have made the place sound beautiful and romantic, but Imogen Ballard didn’t see things like that. It was just too damn cold and wet to get maudlin over.

Everything was gray. The trees, the sky, even the blacktop that her feet skated over. Maybe taking a run to clear her head wasn’t her greatest idea. A roaring fire and scalding-hot coffee would have been better. But it was too late for that now: she was two miles out from home, jogging along the coast road, overlooking the equally gray sea.

The rain was a fine mist that clung to everything. It had soaked her clothing within minutes of setting off, and now sat in heavy beads on her shoulders and on the wool cap pulled down over her short hair. Her effort kept her warm inside her clothes, but she was uncomfortable. Maybe the run wasn’t so bad an idea after all: concentrating on her miserable state kept her mind off her sister. Or it did until that errant thought.

Imogen pushed harder at the road surface, exhorting herself to greater effort. The cold air bit at the back of her throat. She began to sprint, challenging the incline ahead to shake Kate loose. But she was right there, all the way up the hill, watching her—figuratively speaking—all the way to the top.

She regretted involving Kate in her problems. It was her stupidity that had killed Kate.

All her decisions had been made too rashly—she saw that now—especially her decision to move out here to Ass-end, Maine. At the time, she’d thought it was the best thing for her, being close to her parents and siblings who were buried in the family plot. She’d come here because it was the only place where she felt safe. And to heal.

She’d lived through a terrible ordeal. Her lover, William Devaney, had been murdered, and so had Kate. She had heard of something called survivor guilt syndrome, and wondered if that was what she was really hiding from. Her little sister had died protecting her. Joe Hunter and a couple of his friends had gone up against some seriously dangerous men to protect her, too. Imogen had done nothing but get them all in a fix. Guilt was a burden that she had to carry, and it was extremely heavy plowing upward to the top of this hill.

At the crest, Imogen came to a halt. She fisted both hands on her hips, and then bent at the waist to suck in lungfuls of air. A stitch felt like a hot brand creasing her left side. Now this was penance, she decided.