Back in the here and now, Imogen turned to look down the hill she’d just conquered. The blacktop was a glistening ribbon, some of the grayness refracted by the equally glistening trees standing like sentries at the roadside. The run uphill had looked ugly, but now she saw the beauty that beckoned her back down the hill. Her house stood on a promontory overlooking the Atlantic. It was hidden by the trees and the folds of the land, but it was a beacon. She set off jogging again, down the decline, feeling the tug of gravity at the center of her chest. It was as if she were being reeled in on an invisible line. She felt light and easy now.

A truck came over the hill behind her. She heard its grumbling engine and the whistle of thick tires on the slick road surface. Without pausing in her run, she moved to the side of the road, kicking up wings of water in the puddles that gathered there. She glanced back, insuring that the driver had seen her in the poor conditions. The truck swept past her, and cold droplets splattered off her face. She blinked against the sting and her lips pulled into a grimace.

The truck was a blocky white shape. FedEx, she saw, delivering packages. Maybe the driver was headed for points south: Lincolnville or Camden, perhaps.

The brake lights flared and the truck drew to a slow halt.

Imogen wasn’t concerned. FedEx trucks were a regular feature here. Maybe this was a driver unfamiliar with the area who’d decided to stop and ask for directions.

She continued to jog toward the back of the truck. She heard the clunk of the driver’s door being opened and saw a tall, muscular man in a FedEx uniform hop down from the cab. He was holding a clipboard in his hand. Yeah, she decided, he was lost.

“Hi,” the man said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your run, ma’am.”

Imogen slowed down, and then jogged in place. Her trainers made squishing sounds on the asphalt.

“I’m looking for . . .” he inspected the clipboard as though for confirmation. “Yes, I’m looking for a Miss Imogen Ballard.”

Imogen made a living by designing websites, but she sidelined in wildlife photography for magazine publishers. It wasn’t unknown to receive packages of proofs from the publishers. Her eyebrows went up, even as a hand went to her chest.

“You’ve found her.”

“Wow,” said the man. “That was very fortuitous.”

Too fortuitous to be real, Imogen was slow to realize. Who used words like fortuitous these days? She squinted at the man, and his lips pulled into a sneer. Something about the coldness of his eyes warned her that his accidental luck was her misfortune.