“They better not have been here without telling me. They better not have touched or towed anything.”

“But is that possible? Could the Feds have taken over the investigation and we don’t know? It certainly seems they’re interested.”

“If this was their investigation? By now they’d be crawling all over the place the same way they are Lucy’s property. We wouldn’t be sitting here by our lonesome. We probably couldn’t get back on the driveway much less inside the house.”

“They were in this area earlier up in the helicopter …”

“With Benton.” Marino can’t resist reminding me uncharitably. “He was flying right over us when we were here and then more or less followed us to Lucy’s. So who are they really watching? Who’s he really watching?”

“It’s probably a good idea to assume the FBI is watching all of us.” I kill the engine, and nor’easter-force winds shake the truck as rain floods the front windshield. “Let’s just assume the Feds believe Lucy may be implicated in what’s been happening and that I’m in collusion with her. Maybe you are too. Maybe they have all of us on their radar.”

“In other words Lucy’s a serial killer? Or she and Carrie both are, and we know it but are protecting them? And Lucy shot you in the leg and swam off with your dive mask? Or maybe you shot yourself? Or maybe Benton did? Or maybe Moby Dick or a fish called Wanda are to blame? What a crock of crap and how the hell can you be married to someone who’s spying on you, treating you like a fugitive?”

“Benton doesn’t spy on me any more than I spy on him. Both of us have our jobs to do.” That’s as much as I’m going to explain, and I stare out at the centuries-old property in the pounding rain.

THE HOUSE looks dead and lonely, and I’m feeling the same thing I did when we were here earlier. It’s hard to describe. Like a coldness in my diaphragm that causes me to breathe shallowly, very quietly. My stomach is clenched like a fist. My mouth is dry. My pulse is rapid.

I’m questioning myself, and it’s not that I never did before but I seem to do it constantly of late. Am I picking up on real danger? Is it my imagination because I’ve been traumatized? But no matter what I silently analyze or debate as I sit inside the truck I can’t dispel my unsettledness. It’s getting stronger with every moment that passes. I sense a malignant presence. I feel we’re being watched. I think of the pistol in my shoulder bag as I keep up my scan and Marino scrolls through his recent calls.