“I rest my case.” She slipped her hand into his. Sarah could see the cabbie’s curious gaze watching them in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry though. That her life was cut short—” Sarah broke off, sudden nausea rising in her throat. There was something about the removed observational quality of the cabby’s gaze that triggered a cellular memory. “Kevin,” she whispered, staring at Mick with dawning horror. “It might have been him.”

“You’ve lost me. What does Kevin have to do with—”

“He had a thing about water. Would hold me under. Remember, the woman from the Windham Employment Agency? Ellen Davis. She said she’d given him your address. He must have gone to your house. Been waiting for me, and Harmony accidentally stumbled into his web.” Images, memories flashing before her, sunlight, sparkles on the water, Kevin’s face blurry through the ripples, enjoying her fear as she struggled against his grip for life, for breath. She’d come to, face-up on the lawn. Kevin was straddling her hips and doing chest compressions. Coughing, choking as water spewed out of her mouth and nose. The nausea worsened when she became aware of his erection. “I should have known he would go there.” Suddenly, Mick’s arms were around her, tugging her close. Holding her tight, a ballast in the storm.

“Not your fault,” Mick said over and over. “This is not your fault.”

41

“Sarah and Mick exited the taxi. “It’s not too late to switch plans,” she heard Mick say. “Grab a coffee and a slice of pie.”

She looked over at his wolfish face with his lean, carved cheekbones, the dark stubble that she longed to run her fingertips over. His expression was so serious, Sarah had to suppress the impulse to ruffle his hair. “I’m okay,” she replied. “I’m ready to do this.” She felt revved up, a boxer preparing to step into the ring.

It was a lovely residential block with lots of trees. In a few more weeks, the tight buds on the barren branches would unfurl new greenery to herald the arrival of spring. Charming historic houses lined the street in one of the more expensive parts of Brooklyn. Sarah could see a sprawling old graveyard down the road. She glanced at her phone, double-checked the address. “It’s this one.” She gestured to the gracious town house that was painted a pale gray with white trim except for the front door, which was a bold, fire-engine red.

“It would be difficult to afford this neighborhood on a secretary’s salary,” Mick murmured. They climbed the porch stairs, past a trio of flowerpots, where a cluster of tall daffodil stalks and what looked like crocuses were threatening to bloom.