The Search by Nora Roberts Page A

some alone time, just to catch up on sleep, maybe read a book.
    Instead, she prepared for round two, took a call from Sylvia—word traveled—and got through it.
    By the end of her workday, after she and the dogs had gathered and stowed all the toys and training tools, she realized she didn’t want to be alone after all. The house was too quiet, the woods too full of shadows.
    She’d go into town, she decided. Do some shopping, maybe drop by and see Sylvia. She could walk on the beach after. Fresh air, exercise, change of scene. She’d keep at it until she was too damn tired for dreams, bad or otherwise.
    She decided on Newman for company. As he leaped in the car, she turned to the other dogs.
    “You know how it is. Everybody gets a chance for some one-on-one. We’ll bring you something. Be good.”
    When she got in, she gave Newman a sidelong glance. “No smirking,” she ordered.
    Stress eased as she drove, snaking along while the early evening sun dipped beams into the water. Fatigue lessened as she opened the windows wide and cranked up the radio while the wind tossed her hair.
    “Let’s sing!”
    Always ready to oblige, Newman howled in harmony with Beyoncé.
    She intended to drive to Eastsound, stock up on essentials and treat herself to something she absolutely didn’t need. But as she wound along between hill and water, by field and forest, she followed impulse and made the turn at the mailbox marked simply DOYLE.
    Maybe he needed something from the village. She could be neighborly, save him a trip. It didn’t have anything to do with wanting to see where and how he lived. Or hardly anything.
    She liked the way the trees screened, and let the sunlight shimmer and shine on rock and tall grass. And she liked the house, she thought, as it came into view. The central double peaks, the tumbling lines that followed the slope of the land.
    It could use some paint, she decided. Something fresh and happy for the trim. And some chairs, some colorful pots of flowers on the porch and the sweet little second-story deck. Maybe a bench under the weeping cherry that would burst into bloom in the spring.
    She parked beside Simon’s truck, noted he’d replaced the headrest he’d patched with duct tape. Then she spotted the outbuilding a few yards from the house, nearly enveloped by the trees.
    Long and low, it likely held as many square feet as her house, and offered a generous covered porch on the front. A scatter of tables, chairs and what she took as parts of other pieces of furniture stood or leaned under the shade.
    She heard the sound of sawing—at least she thought it was sawing—buzzing under heroically loud rock and roll.
    She got out, signaled Newman to join her. He scented the air—new place, new smells—as he fell into step with her.
    “Great view, huh?” she murmured, looking out over the sound to the opposing shorelines and the little nubs of green on the water. “And look, he’s got a little beach down there, and a pier. He needs a boat, but it’s nice. Water, woods, some nice stretches of ground, and not too close to the road. It’s a good home for a dog.”
    She scratched Newman’s ears and wandered closer to the outbuilding.
    She spotted him through the window—jeans, T-shirt, goggles, tool belt. And noted she’d been right about the saw. It was, she thought, one big, scary mother. He slid wood under its fast, toothy blade. Her stomach tightened a little at the thought of what it could do to fingers, and with that in mind, she moved carefully around to the door, standing out of range until the buzzing paused.
    Then she knocked, waved through the glass. When he only stood there, frowning at her, she opened the door. The pup lay on the floor, feet in the air as if he’d been electrocuted.
    “Hi!” She had to pitch to just under scream level to beat out the music. “I was on my way to the village and thought . . .”
    She trailed off as he pulled out earplugs.
    “Oh, well, no wonder it’s