Free The Widow by Carla Neggers Page A

would have gladly painted with her or for her, and they wouldn’t have cared about getting a break on rent—they knew she could have charged twice as much. She didn’t care about making a profit.
    But doing the work, the steady rhythm of it, the kind of concentration it required, helped anchor her mind just enough for her to think productively, not an easy concept to explain but one that worked for her.
    Not that she’d produced any great insights since she’d first dipped her brush into the blue paint.
    She’d opened up all her windows and could hear gulls and the wash of the tide, passing boats, the occasional rustle of leaves and branches in the wind. Peaceful sounds that somehow made her feel less isolated.
    She thought of Owen and wondered if he ever felt isolated, or if he would have preferred to have their quiet waterfront all to himself.
    A different sound caught her attention. She paused, paintbrush in midair, to hear better.
    There it was again.
    A whisper, she decided. Someone was outside.
    She laid her brush across the top of her coffee can and dismounted the ladder, then fetched her gun from the small safe in the front room. She slipped on the belt holster. If not for the call the other night, she wouldn’t have bothered.
    She stepped into the back room, listening through the open back door.
    A whiny whisper. A sharp one in response.
    Kids.
    Tucking her weapon into her holster, Abigail walked outside, the evening air cool, almost cold, the navy blue sky dotted with the first stars of the night.
    “Shh.” Another whisper. “Be quiet.”
    “I am being quiet. You’re the one.”
    The voices came from a trio of pine trees to Abigail’s right. She walked down the porch steps. “You can come out of the trees. The mosquitoes must be eating you alive.”
    “You won’t tell our dad?”
    The Alden boys, she thought. Had to be. Doyle and Owen had developed a tight, if unexpected, friendship, especially in the years since Chris’s death.
    “Come on, guys. Sean and Ian, right? It’s getting dark.”
    The two boys stepped out from behind the smallest of the pines into the yard. The older boy, Sean, looked more defiant than embarrassed or fearful. Ian stayed a half step behind his brother.
    “You remember me, don’t you? Abigail—Abigail Browning.”
    They nodded simultaneously but said nothing.
    “Are you and your dad visiting Owen?”
    “Just us,” Sean said. “Dad’s at a meeting.”
    “Is Owen behind you?”
    Ian gasped, but Sean shook his head. “We’re on a mission,” he said in a serious tone.
    Abigail didn’t want to make light of whatever they were up to. “What kind of mission?”
    “Sean.” Ian tugged on his brother’s arm. “We can’t tell her. Dad’ll kill us.”
    Sean was silent a moment, then said, “Ian and me are just practicing our nighttime navigation skills.”
    “That’s your mission?” she asked.
    Both boys nodded.
    “How did you end up here? Was that part of your mission?”
    Ian took a step forward, and in the light from her house, Abigail saw that he was pale and nervous. Because of her? She could see tears forming in his eyes.
    “Boys,” she said gently, “what’s going on?”
    Before they could answer—or lie—pine branches moved behind them, creating shadows on the grass, and Sean and Ian shot toward Abigail, ducking behind her with a terror that was both immediate and real.
    “It’s just me,” Owen said, ducking out into the open. “Sorry if I startled everyone.”
    Given his experience, stealth would come almost naturally to him at this point. Abigail slipped her arms over the boys’ shoulders as they stood on either side of her. “Why don’t we all go inside for a minute? You can inspect my paint job while I make hot chocolate. Then you can warm up before you go on your way.”
    Owen eyed the boys, unamused. “You two told me you were going upstairs to read.”
    “We did,” Sean said. “We just—”
    “I can’t have you stay with me if