Branches interlocked overhead, and pine boughs formed a natural screen. Patrick couldn't have a chosen a better place from which to watch Lafarge. Or to sit with Marisa. Enclosed by the trees, they were completely alone. The realization made his heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with the stakeout itself.

“I love the smell of the woods,” Marisa said.

“Me too,” Patrick said. “Did you grow up in the country?”

“No, Newport, Rhode Island. Right on Spring Street, across from Trinity Church. It's like a small city.”

“I know Newport,” Patrick said. “Growing up on the Connecticut shoreline, we went there a lot on weekends. It was always fun—but I didn't sail, and my father wasn't rich, so I felt pretty out of place.”

“I didn't sail, and my father wasn't rich either,” Marisa said. Patrick took his eyes off the red house long enough to see her smile at him.

“Really?” Patrick asked. “I guess I thought all the girls down on Bannister's Wharf were sailors. I imagined them all going to private schools, having trust funds, things like that. And I was just a cop's son, about to become a cop myself.”

“My father was a teacher,” Marisa said. “And my mother was a nurse.”

“Is that why you and Sam . . . ?”

“Yes,” Marisa said. “We went to public school, where our father taught, and we used to hear our mother talking about the people she treated in the emergency room where she worked. She really cared about everyone—we could see she loved her work, loved making a difference. She saved a lot of lives over the years—car accidents, near drownings, little kids choking, or with high fevers . . . she really inspired both me and Sam.”

“Who inspired the music?” Patrick asked.

Marisa laughed. “There were a lot of musical people in Newport. One family had ten kids, and they used to give concerts at our church. Everyone played an instrument. Sam and I wanted to be like that—so I took up violin in fourth grade, and she followed the next year.”

“And you got good enough to put yourselves through nursing school,” Patrick said.

Marisa nodded. “We loved doing it too. We'd be working so hard all week, we'd barely even have time to see each other. But when weekends came, we'd jump into our car and head for Georgetown, or one of about twenty bars in Baltimore, wherever we were booked to play. We'd hit the stage together, and even if we hadn't rehearsed once all week, we'd just play our fiddles and sing in harmony, as if we did it every single night.”

“You two were something to hear, that's for sure,” Patrick said softly. “I'm sure you still are.”

“How do you know?” Marisa asked.