“Sure,” Poppy said, feeling a tense energy rise within her.

“Anyway, there was one name on the registry for Fripp Island, and I remembered it because it’s so unusual,” Lisa said quietly. “Keats Firestone. You don’t forget a name like that. And when I went to sign for the work on the fridge, there it was, printed on that paper staring right up at me.”

“He’s on the list,” Poppy said.

Lisa nodded. Hot sangria breath puffed out of her.

“I don’t reckon we’ll need to make any more maintenance calls this week,” Poppy said.

“This island is only three miles long, though, Pop. It’s not like he’s on the other side of the world. He probably lives here. I’m sure he’s around. You know?”

Poppy considered this. “Did you say they give out the addresses of these guys?”

Lisa nodded. “It’s on the paper in my purse.”

She returned a moment later with a handwritten list on yellow legal paper and a map of the island. Together they approximated the location of their beach house on the map and then that of the address listed for Keats Firestone.

Poppy breathed, “Well, shit,” realizing that he lived about a quarter of a mile up the beach. “How’s a guy working maintenance afford to live in a beachfront house?”

Lisa said, “Oftentimes a property owner will rent a tiny apartment in the basement or above a garage for their maintenance guys so they can get to all the rentals in a flash.” She stared out the window, down the beach in the direction of Keats Firestone’s house. “Do you think the property manager knows?” Her eyes flashed. “The property manager who sent this guy to our house?”

“No way,” Poppy said. “If he knew, he definitely wouldn’t be employing the guy.”

“I should think not,” Lisa said. “Sending him into people’s homes. We should tell him.”

“You think?” Poppy said.

Lisa nodded. “Definitely. Wouldn’t you want to know?”

Poppy hesitated. She felt crowded by the facts of this situation. “Yeah, I would,” she eventually answered. It was quiet for a bit, then she said, “He was wearing a wedding ring.”

“Was he?”

Poppy nodded. “And he was a looker, wasn’t he? You usually don’t imagine . . .” Her voice trailed off. Poppy didn’t know about Lisa, but she imagined that sexual predators always had weird haircuts and sunken, piggy eyes. Nothing like this Keats guy.

Lisa downed the rest of her Sangria. She loosened the braid she had put in her ponytail, brushed her chin with the tail of it. “For all the times I’ve done this over the years, I never put much thought into what I’d do if I actually came face-to-face with one of these guys on the list. You don’t think . . . No, we shouldn’t tell our guys. Right? The husbands or the kids.”

“I don’t want the kids to be scared to leave the house,” Poppy said. “And the husbands would probably be overprotective about it. Let’s keep it between us and keep a close eye on things.” She nodded toward the beach. “Make sure nobody goes wandering too far unsupervised.”