To access the long ribbon of blacktop that led to the Kelly house, you had to pass through a gate. Johansson keyed in an entry code, the gate parted, and they drove in and followed the winding lane through the tall pines until the immaculately landscaped lawn came into view, resplendent with large, artfully placed boulders and flower beds. An old sailboat mast converted to a flagpole stood in the center of the yard, the flags snapping in a strong sea breeze, chased by tendrils of inbound fog that moved as fast as smoke.
They went around one more curve and then the North Atlantic came into sight, the bold open ocean as it could rarely be seen, even in Maine. The Kelly family truly had a million-dollar view. More like five million, Barrett guessed.
There was a carriage-house-style garage with guest quarters above that connected to the main house through a glassed-in breezeway. The main house was an imposing structure with a chimney on each end and cedar siding stained to a grayish blue. George Kelly opened the door and stood at the threshold with no trace of surprise.
Barrett had spoken to the man countless times on the phone and in videoconferences, but he’d met him in person only once, in the conversation that left Barrett with the sense that he hadn’t so much updated them on the investigation as auditioned for a role in it.
Maybe it had felt a lot like that to Johansson too.
Barrett got out of Johansson’s truck with the nine-millimeter held openly. Johansson looked at him and said nothing, just shrugged and led the way up the curving front steps to where George Kelly waited. He, too, was looking at the gun, but he didn’t comment on it either.
Don Johansson had lost too much weight since the investigation, and Barrett’s skull looked as if it had been redecorated by a horror-movie makeup artist, but George Kelly was remarkably unchanged. He was wearing a crisp white polo shirt and gray chinos that seemed an exact match for the house’s siding. His hair was as white as his shirt, but there was plenty of it, combed straight back. He seemed to stand perfectly straight at all times, as if military posture were a natural, comfortable thing.
George Kelly’s eyes followed the gun. “Hello, Agent Barrett. Come on in.”
They followed him into a sunlit expanse of house that was designed to funnel all attention to the banks of windows and sliding-glass doors that fronted the bay. It was an astonishing view of a gorgeous but intimidating stretch of ocean. You could see some of the islands and a few lighthouses, but while it was waterfront property, there was no water access. The home had been positioned above towering and jagged granite cliffs, built like a monument to dominance over nature.
If the ocean was impressed, it didn’t show it. The swells threw spray up at the deck before retreating with the unique bass timbre of deep water. That high, fast-running fog was blowing in as if it were late for an appointment.
“How often do you have to replace the shingles?” Barrett asked.
George Kelly blinked at him. “You want to talk about shingles?”
“I’m curious.”
Kelly apparently decided to consider this an interesting opening salvo. He said, “A few every year. It’s a well-built home, but that wind?” He nodded toward the sea. “It gets cruel in the winter. It takes its toll on the place.”
Barrett was oddly glad to hear that.
“If you’re here, then Don has told you about his financial incentive,” George said in a calm, clipped voice. “He suspects you won’t be interested in the same sort of terms.”
“He suspects correctly.”
“Then you intend to alert your few remaining friends in law enforcement to the situation. Roxanne Donovan, perhaps.”
There was something troubling about his use of her name, as if he already had a list of potential adversaries and plans to deal with them.
“I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” Barrett said.
“No? It seems very cut-and-dried to me. Either you stay silent or you don’t.”
“I’m more concerned with getting it right first.”
George looked at him strangely. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he’d been crying not long before their arrival.
“Getting it right,” he echoed, as if the words made no sense.
“Yes. As in finding out who killed your son, and why. Are you no longer interested in that, George? Or do you already know?”
George stared into the distance for a few moments. Then he said, “This doesn’t help anyone, don’t you see that? They are dead. They will remain dead. They are also beloved. They will not remain beloved if you tell this story.”
“I didn’t write this story,” Barrett said. “You two did.”
“But you came back to help, theoretically. You believe the truth will help someone.”
“I do, yes.”
“Who? Don’s family? Mine? Jackie Pelletier’s?”
“Jeffrey Girard’s, for one,” Barrett said.
“How does it help them? Financially, I suppose. They could sue me. They could sue the state. But their son is still dead, and their son is still complicit in a murder.”
“Complicit. That’s an interesting term. He’s not guilty, then?”
“Not solely, no.”
Barrett was astonished by how matter-of-factly he said that.
“How did it happen, George?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“But you know it didn’t happen the way everyone thinks.”
“If it did, that was only the surface. If Girard was involved, he was certainly not a lone actor. And I have trouble believing he was involved at all now. The more I learn about him, the less he fits.”
“So what’s beneath the surface?”
“I would like to show you something before you make any decisions. I think it’s important that you see it.”
“What am I going to see?”
“A confession,” George Kelly told him, and then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room and down a hall.
Barrett looked at Johansson.
“Have you seen this?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Barrett waved the gun at the hallway. “Then let’s go see what he’s talking about.”