Holding Maeve's hand, Lily tried to will her awake. She needed her so much. She needed help in knowing what to do. One man had done so much harm to Lily and this woman she loved like a mother. And now he was setting his sights on Rose.

“Granny,” Lily said, “please wake up. I need you.”

Maeve stirred, her mouth twitching. Lily could almost believe she was listening, trying to come out of her deep sleep. What had Edward done to her?

Seeing Edward again had left her feeling frayed and raw. In spite of Patrick's assurance that he would not bother her here, that police were keeping an eye on him, she jumped at footsteps in the hallway, and when shadows fell across the door to Maeve's room.

He was so good at convincing people that he was good and kind, she could imagine him talking his way past the nurses. At one time, he had made her feel so safe. The way he had held her at night, stroking her hair, wanting to hear about her family, her upbringing, her terrible sadness at losing her parents.

She remembered lying in his bed in the apartment he rented in Hawthorne, the week after they'd returned from Washington, right after Christmas. He had listened, holding her. She'd talked about painting and needlepointing canvases with pictures that told stories.

Images of the shoreline—the Connecticut Impressionists at their easels by the banks of the Lieutenant River; children playing on the beach at Hubbard's Point; sailboats frostbiting in Hawthorne Harbor.

“I just love telling stories, and doing the work,” she'd said. “Especially, I love the people I meet.”

“I hope they pay you what you're worth,” he'd said.

He'd drawn her out, getting her to admit she earned a good living, printing her canvases and selling them to fine gift shops up and down the East Coast, from Bar Harbor to Palm Beach.

He was a stockbroker at Connecticut–Wall Street Associates. Although he had worked at several places after graduating from Harvard, this firm was the best, he said. He had wealthy clients who treated him like a friend—or even a son.

“I coach Little League too,” he said. “And basketball. Trying to give kids some of the . . .” He paused, kissing her forehead in a thoughtful way. “Let's just say, some of the advantages I never had.”

“But you went to Harvard,” she said.

He laughed. “On a baseball and rugby scholarship,” he said. “My parents couldn't have afforded it otherwise. Believe me, the only college my parents ever saw was the one where my mother mopped floors. My father's institution of higher learning was Somers Prison.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said, shocked.