By Sarah Graves

It starts off with a cellphone name that reopens a painful bankruptcy in Jake Tiptree’s earlier. After years of hold up, the fellow who murdered Jake’s mom is eventually scheduled to face trial—until he vanishes into skinny air. possibly the single factor worse approximately Ozzie Campbell’s disappearing is that Jake has a poor foreboding of simply the place he’ll happen subsequent. together with her relatives away, Jake had was hoping to relish a couple of days of unaccustomed solitude. Now, abruptly, her comfortable, well-loved domestic in Eastport, Maine, turns out extra like a dying seize able to snap close. without warning Jake feels that her house—and her life—has a long way too many home windows. And in anybody of them she could see the face of her killer.

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Bears, and…well, he didn't know what else might be running around in these trees. Were there lions in Maine forests? Marky might know, but another thing Anthony had figured out was that it was better not to ask Marky unnecessary questions. On the Tappan Zee, actually, when Anthony was first confronting the knotty problem of unfolding the map, he'd real ized it. He'd asked Marky to say where in Maine they were going so he could at least try to start plotting their route. That was the first time Marky had told Anthony to shut the freak up, adding that if Anthony gave him any crap whatsoever on this trip, Marky would shoot him and dump his dead body by the side of the road.

Yeah. You told me that on the phone, Jake," he said. Plump and pink-faced, Bob didn't resemble the kind of quick-on-the- uptake cop who could nab up a bad guy so fast that the guy was deposited in Bob's squad car and locked behind the perp screen before he even knew what hit him. But just a week earlier, a couple of out-of-towners had decided that Eastport would make a great export center for bulk metham-phetamines. Right on the water and only a few hundred yards from the Canadian border, they rigged waterproof bait boxes and attached them to Styrofoam buoys, then went on "fishing trips" and left the boxes floating, to be picked up by their cohorts on the far side of the imaginary line dividing the two nations.

Presto, one wasted trip, he thought. Or worse, if Marky's stunt blew up in their faces. Annoyed, he decided the first thing he would do when they got back to the house was find a percolator and something to brew in it. Acorns, maybe; they must have a lot of those here, and to hell with what Marky wanted or didn't. But once they reached the place, Anthony just stood looking at it again. It had about a million wooden shingles on it, a tan silvery color, and its different rectangles were stacked unevenly atop one another but still flowing together, the opposite of the aluminum-sided three-deckers he was used to back in New Jersey.

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