The man spun around, his boots crunching against gravel. Now that he was facing her, Kate saw that he was quite handsome: a heavy brow and deep, sad eyes made him look thoughtful. There were flecks of white in his hair and he wore a pale grey work shirt with Island Care embroidered on the breast pocket.

‘Shit, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was driving past and saw your car parked out front. Do you know the man who lived here?’

He pointed up at the house, yellow police tape zig-zagging across the front door.

She nodded. ‘I’m his wife.’

Although she supposed that wasn’t officially true anymore. She was his widow. Widow. That word was too sharp to swallow, too hot to hold in her hands.

‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to him. The whole island’s in a state of shock about it.’ He noticed the lock-box under her arm. ‘What do you have there?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, turning the box over in her hands. ‘I misplaced the key.’

‘I can help you open it, if you like?’

‘I don’t want to trouble you.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘Can I take a look?’

She hesitated, then handed it to him. He studied it a second, then carried it over to his truck and set it down on the tray. He opened a red toolbox, took out a hammer and a flat-head screwdriver. She looked up the street. All the big houses were empty at this time of year. She was alone out here with this man.

‘I tried that already,’ Kate said.

Ignoring her, he wedged the screwdriver against the locking mechanism, then tapped the handle with the head of the hammer. After three or four well-placed strikes, the lock snapped inwards. He set his tools down and tried the lid of the box. With a little heavy-handed encouragement, it popped open. He looked inside for a long, cold moment, then closed the lid and handed back the box.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘No worries.’

He reloaded his tools into the back of his truck, got in and drove away. Kate waited until the man was out of sight. She then climbed behind the wheel of her car, locked the doors and opened up the box.

18

THE WIFE

Biller was right. Bay Street was a circus. A bank of parked cars was clustered around the community centre, a budget-deprived brick building that shared a strip of land with the Belport Library.

The police had set up their information caravan on the wide front lawn, a sweep of lush green grass that turned yellow in the summer. It was less an actual caravan than a long white trailer with a marquee attached. Under the marquee was a small table with coffee and biscuits. Someone had placed a smooth rock on the top of the napkins to keep them from blowing away.