She ducked to look up at the house through his window. "Should we go up?"

"I'm just trying to gather my strength."

Nodding, she said, "Take all the time you need."

He took a few deep breaths. In the seven years she'd known Martin she'd never seen him so scared. Even the other night, when she went to his place to go over her Barclay interviews, he'd seemed relatively cool.

Sitting here now, the seatbelt still drawn across his chest, he looked like a frightened little boy about to be dropped off at summer camp. Having lived under the shadow of a woman with an undetermined mental illness during his formative years would surely have been traumatic. Terrorized by her mentally ill older sister well into her teens, Sheila knew how dealing with a relative's mental illness could negatively affect someone's life well into adulthood. She also knew how the sting of a mother's coldness or indifference could last a lifetime. But for him to be afraid of her still, after all this time, it just didn't click with what she knew of him.

"Okay," he said with a quick nod. "Let's do this, before I lose my nerve."

He unbuckled and opened the door. She stepped out and met him on the sidewalk.

"Home again, home again, jiggety-jog."

He frowned. "What's that?"

"Some old nursery rhyme. 'To market to market, to buy a fat hog. Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.'"

"I don't like it," he said, then started up the walk.

The Savage house was a two-story Victorian, all red brick and white trim, dormers over the windows on the second floor and a widow's watch, where Sheila thought it might be possible to see the ocean over the houses, trees and rooftops across the street.

Martin had called it a gingerbread house last night, and the description fit. The light dusting of snow on the crisp brown grass made her think of powdered sugar. Surprisingly, it was in good repair. As far as she could see, there wasn't any sign of the fire that caused Martin and his aunt to flee the island for Connecticut.

"You coming?"

He was looking back at her from the wraparound porch, reaching out for the screen door with his uninjured left hand. She hurried up and stopped a few steps behind him. The wind chimes above his head tinkled lightly in the chilly breeze.

He rapped on the door's wooden frame, then gave her a nervous grin. His aunt hadn't picked up the phone when he called at the ferry docks. The visit would be a surprise for both women. Hopefully, it would welcome.

"Maybe nobody's home." He knocked again, harder this time.

From inside the house came a husky woman's voice: "Hold your horsies!"

A moment later, the sound of a chain being drawn and latches pulled. It seemed like a lot of security for a town surrounded by water with a population just shy of a thousand, although she supposed with what had happened when Martin was young it made sense to keep the house locked from intruders.