FBI agents aren’t supposed to damage belongings or disable someone’s residential infrastructure or deliberately create a security liability. But that doesn’t mean they won’t. It doesn’t mean they’ll have any problem trumping up a justification for their actions. I wonder if they recognized the sound-masking system in here, and if so why they didn’t insist that the boathouse is off-limits.

Why really?

What is the actual reason they’re permitting us to hole up in here and is there any way at all they could have us under surveillance despite Lucy’s protestations that it’s not possible? She swears we’re safe when I ask about it again just now. She swears everything we’re discussing is private. But I continue to have my doubts no matter what she swears. I don’t trust a damn thing.

“I hope you’re right and we’re okay.” I hold Lucy’s gaze. “How about everybody else? Is everyone okay?” I direct this at Janet as I walk to the couch. “How are you and Desi doing?”

I GIVE THEM A HUG, and Janet is cool and composed. It’s her nature, her personality to be that way, and my attention lingers on her youthful attractive face.

She’s not wearing makeup. Her short blond hair is messy as if she’s been running her fingers through it, and her nails are dirty. She’s wearing scrubs and I happen to know she sleeps in scrubs. But she doesn’t lounge in them. I’ve never seen her wear them around the house except right before bed or when she first gets up. It’s lunchtime and she’s unkempt and in scrubs, and it means something I need to figure out.

If the FBI got here midmorning then what were Lucy and Janet doing before that? I’m quite certain they weren’t relaxing. When I hugged Janet just now and kissed her cheek, I tasted salt. I picked up the loamy pungent odors of soil mingled with the vague musky scent of sweat. Lucy was sweaty too. Perhaps they were doing some type of yard work earlier today.

They don’t do yard work. They have a lawn service and a landscaper.

I look around at built-in bookshelves, the exposed beams, the gray slate floor, the kitchenette with its gas stovetop and stainless steel sinks and appliances, and the backsplash of Venetian glass tiles the color of smoke. The boathouse is bright and simple, a small living area and a bath. It’s clean but has the empty patina of places rarely used. Maybe only when Lucy needs to scramble conversations. Or when she’s feeling hunted. And possibly she feels that way more than I’ve realized.