She had a strong Maine accent: the variety I associated with the lobstering islands Down East. In my experience accents tend to linger within families, being passed down to children and grandchildren. They can be stubborn, only fading over the course of generations.

The Dillons had no such accent, nor even the hint of one. That, too, struck me as odd.

Lynda Lynch fell silent as her cell phone chimed. She squinted to read the illuminated screen. Finally she raised her head to meet my gaze. Her irises were the syrupy color of motor oil.

“You wanted to speak with me,” I reminded her.

“I want to know what you’re up to!”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Don’t play games with me! You’ve invaded our privacy here. And you’re pestering my family with personal questions without saying what’s behind them. What is it you’re trying to find out, Warden Bowditch?”

“It’s one of my jobs to review closed cases, to ensure that all official protocols were followed.”

“As if!”

“Your granddaughter Tori said you had information about the death of Professor Eben Chamberlain.”

She became quiet, and I could sense her cold calculations.

“Maybe I do,” she said, nodding toward a rocking chair. “Tina, go make the warden a cup of coffee. Use those good Dunkin’ Donuts pods, not the cheap stuff from Marden’s. And get me another Bartles & Jaymes while you’re in the kitchen, dear.”

She pronounced the last word dee-ah.

Tina bit her chapped lip. “Sure thing, Gram.”

27

It’s a three-legged race. Tori Dillon is lame in one quad from a knife cut, while I am limping from a bullet wound. We have only two functioning legs between us, and we’re both staggering as fast as we can toward her snowmobile.

I crash out onto the frozen channel, slip, and land awkwardly on the shotgun. More bruises if I survive the night.

When I raise my snow-dusted face, I see something so uncanny I can hardly believe it.

Tori Dillon has beaten me to the channel. She would have made it to her sled easily if not for the black monster blocking her way. The wolf has reemerged from the far trees.

Was he returning to the island to find me?

He stands there, long legs apart, huge head lowered, hackles raised. Tori meanwhile is paused in mid-step as if she doesn’t dare move a muscle. Shadow has to be the largest canine she’s ever seen, as big as a young bear.

Run away, you stupid animal.

Rising to my knees, I turn the flashlight on her. She has a red hand clamped to her wounded thigh. She’s shed her balaclava, and her pale eyes are huge with fear. It’s not every day you meet the big bad wolf.

I have a thousand questions for her, but the sound of the approaching sleds makes my priority clear.