The Edge

He did wind sprints forward and then backward, because all-out charges were often followed by the same level of retreats, and you never wanted to fully look away from whoever was shooting at you.

His breathing was always precisely timed and measured to sync with his body and effort.

He finished with Army low crawls on the wet grass that led to high-kickers and then an exhausting set of burpees.

He slowly cooled down, letting his heart rate and breathing normalize before heading back. It was nearly six thirty when he stepped into the shower back at his cottage.

He dried off, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and headed out. The inn served a continental breakfast, but, as he had mentioned to Harper and Fuss, Devine had spotted a breakfast restaurant, Maine Brew, down the street. He wanted some time to think before he met up with the local police. And he wanted to go over again what he had learned, and not learned, so far.

A short walk through windy cold brought him to the blue-painted door of the restaurant. It was pretty full at a little after seven. The place looked like it had been recently renovated; the clusters of tables and chairs in the middle of the sturdy wood composite floor, and the red vinyl booths that ringed the perimeter, looked new. The counter was long and had deli-style refrigerated, glass-fronted cabinets that were filled with all sorts of meats, salads, sandwiches, and other prepared foods.

Two waitresses were working the tables. At the counter a third young woman was taking care of the half dozen customers seated there on bolted-in whirly stools. The place was definitely bustling, Devine observed, but there might not be many places to get breakfast in town, either.

The sign on a metal stand at the entrance said to seat yourself, so Devine did, at a booth at the very end of one wall and farthest from the kitchen.

A young waitress hurried over with a laminated menu that was clipped to a wooden board. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked.

“Coffee, black, and a big glass of water, no ice.”

“Coming up.”

She hurried off while Devine looked at the menu. There were some healthier selections, like avocado toast and stone-cut oatmeal with fruit, but he decided to opt for an old favorite, with one modification thrown into the mix.

When she brought the coffee, which was piping hot and smelled wonderful, he ordered the Lobsterman’s Breakfast, which basically covered all major food groups, with a piece of fried cod — the one modification — thrown in.

She left the menu behind after he gave his order, and he ran his gaze down it. The owner was Annie... Palmer? Devine did a double take at the name. Palmer was a pretty common surname, but in a town with fewer than three hundred people could she be related to Earl?

He took out his phone and Googled the restaurant. On the website he saw a photo of a smiling young woman. He glanced up to see the same woman working the breakfast counter.

Annie Palmer was in her late twenties, with dark hair, brown eyes, and of medium height. The woman didn’t seem to be carrying an ounce of fat on her. But with her job he assumed she never stopped moving. There was no mention of any connection to Earl in the online materials, but there wouldn’t necessarily be, either.

His breakfast arrived, and it was as good as the coffee. He was surprised how much he liked the combo of fried cod, scrambled eggs with bacon and ham, and thick pieces of buttered toast. He took his time eating and watching everyone around him without seeming to do so. He caught several people staring at him and making no pains to disguise it.

He thought back to his encounters with Dak and, later, his sister. Alex seemed truly brokenhearted about her sibling’s death. But then what had her parting comment been about?

Did she mean that not everyone thought Jenny was a good person, maybe including her?

These musings were interrupted by someone coming over and approaching his table.

Annie Palmer tucked a strand of hair back into place behind her ear and slid him a fresh cup of coffee. She had also brought one for herself. Up close, he could see the smattering of freckles over her cheeks and nose. She sat down across from him.

Devine glanced over to see that the counter crowd had mostly dissipated. In fact, the place only had a few tables still occupied. He eyed his watch. He’d been here nearly fifty minutes. It had felt like five seconds.

“Thanks,” he said. “Does the boss usually make table calls?”

She smiled and it was warm and genuine, and the woman looked like she was used to doing it. “The boss does everything that she needs to do to keep this place afloat.”

“Well, it looks to me like you have fair winds and following seas.”

“In Maine, that can change in a heartbeat.”

“I suppose. You’re young to be running your own business, but then what do I know.”

“I’ll be thirty in two years, but some days I feel a lot older.”

“Don’t we all.”