The Witness

He’s not handsome, and he’s a little paunchy. But he’s got a sweetness to him. You did, too, but I didn’t appreciate it. I’m appreciating his. We’re not sleeping together yet, but I feel good when I’m with him. I feel better about myself. I guess we’re friends the way you and I never were.”
    “That’s good.”
    “He makes me happy, and I didn’t expect to be. I guess I’ll find out if I can stay happy.”
    “I hope you can.”
    “So do I.” She slid out. “I don’t think I’m ready to say I hope you stay happy with Abigail Lowery, but I nearly am.”
    “That’s a start.”
    “I’ll see you around.”
    She sashayed out. Roland decided he had a lot more mulling to do, but since he’d finished his pie, he needed to do it elsewhere. In any case, Gleason was leaving, laying money on the tabletop for the coffee.
    Maybe he’d drive out toward Lowery’s place, get the lay of the land.
    T AKING A BREAK FROM WORK , Abigail paged through recipes online. It kept her from worrying. Nearly kept her from worrying. She knew Brooks would want to talk about what happened next when he came. She worried about what he thought should happen next.
    So she worked, did laundry, worked, weeded the garden, worked, looked through recipes. She couldn’t seem to settle, focus on one chore until she completed it.
    It wasn’t like her.
    She wished he’d come.
    She wished she could be alone.
    She wished she knew what she really wished. She hated this indecision, the gnawing anxiety. It wasn’t productive.
    When her alarm sounded, she spun in her chair, certain that telling Brooks—telling anyone—the story had brought the Volkovs to her door.
    Illogical. Actually ridiculous, she admitted, but her pulse hammered as she watched the man in the ball cap on her monitor.
    A good camera, she noted. Boots that had seen some wear. A backpack.
    A hiker or tourist who’d wandered onto her property, despite the postings. That was it, probably.
    When he took out binoculars, aimed them toward her cabin, the anxiety increased.
    Who was he? What was he doing?
    Coming closer. Still closer.
    He stopped again, scanned with his compact field glasses, turning slowly until it seemed to Abigail he stared through them right at one of the cameras. Then he continued on, continuing the circle.
    He took off his cap, scrubbed at his hair before taking out a water bottle and drinking deeply. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a compass, took a step, stumbled. He fumbled with the compass, dropped it. She saw his mouth move as he dived for it, snatched it off the ground.
    He shook it, lifted his face to the sky, then sat on the ground, dropped his head to his knees.
    He stayed as he was for several moments before pushing to his feet. He mopped at his face, then continued toward her cabin.
    After checking her weapon, Abigail took the dog outside, circled around.
    She could hear him coming. Nothing stealthy in his approach, she thought, and he was muttering to himself, breathing fast, heavy. From the side of the greenhouse, she watched him come into view, heard him say, very clearly, “Thank God,” as he arrowed straight toward her rear door.
    He knocked, swiped sweat from his face, waited. He knocked again, more forcefully. “Hello! Is anybody there? Please, let somebody be there.”
    He walked down the porch, cupped his hand on the window glass.
    And she stepped out, the dog by her side. “What do you want?”
    He jumped like a rabbit, spun around. “Jeez, you scared the—” His eyes went huge when he saw the gun, and his hands shot straight up in the air. “Jesus, don’t shoot me. I’m lost. I got lost. I’m just looking for the way back to my car.”
    “What were you doing in the woods, on my property? It’s clearly posted.”
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was taking photographs. I’m a photographer. I was just going to take a few shots, get the feel of things, and I got caught up, went in farther than I meant to. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have ignored the No Trespassing signs. You can call the cops. Just don’t shoot me. My—my name’s Roland Babbett. I’m staying at the Inn of the Ozarks. You can check.”
    “Please take off your pack, set it down, step away from it.”
    “Okay, sure.”
    He wasn’t wearing a gun—she’d seen him do a full circle and would have spotted it. But he might have a weapon in the pack.
    “You can keep the pack,” he said, when he set it down. “My wallet’s in there. You can