There was just no damned way he could make this right. The best he could hope for was to figure out where he’d gone wrong-and God knew that wouldn’t be consolation to anyone.

The box with his notes on this case was in the attic back home. He needed to get his hands on the old files, find some quiet place where no one could find him, where he could go over every word of every report without being disturbed by ringing phones, so he could reconstruct the entire thing in his head, until he understood and could explain to himself how he could have been so far from the truth. Then maybe he could explain to her-to Jeanette Beale, whose eyes had never left her son. Those eyes had expressed no shock when the conviction was read, nor when the death sentence had been announced, almost as if she’d expected no less than this from her life.

Matt needed to understand, not so that he could offer excuses when the cameras caught up to him and the microphones were shoved in his face, but so that he would have the strength to face her, to tell her what had gone wrong, to explain to her how he and the system had failed her son. How he had failed her. How regardless of what else in life had let her down, she should have been able to count on him to find the truth, and on justice being done.

He reached up and grabbed one of the pilings, pulled himself to his feet, and stood for one moment more to watch the gulls dive for the small fish that swam close to shore. On the way back to the house, he took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. He knew just the place where he could hide out and relive the past for a few days.

“Hey, Diane? Matt. Yeah, great, thanks. Yes, I got your message. You said something about taking your boat out on the Chesapeake for a few days? I think I changed my mind. Yeah, sure. I can be ready to leave in the morning…”

Another airport. Another rental car. Another winding country road heading toward another marsh. Dorsey couldn’t help but make the parallels between where she’d been yesterday and where she was today.

The big difference was that Hathaway Beach had not been the scene of a recent murder, a murder certain to gain national attention once it became known this was the case that had made Matt Ranieri, if not a household name, certainly a recognizable one.

Shelter Island was located off Georgia ’s coast, a pretty, privately owned island which had once been the exclusive domain of a family named Sheldrake. In the early-1800s, Horace Sheldrake purchased the island from its original owners and turned it into one big cotton plantation. The mansion Horace built for his family had since been renovated and was now a luxury hotel. Much of the rest of the small island had been turned into a private golf course. If you wanted to play the course, you booked a room or a suite or perhaps one of the small guest cottages, and you played for free. Otherwise, you didn’t play at all.

The island lay across a two-lane bridge. At its foot, Dorsey took a right turn and followed a sandy patch of road to Calvin’s Crab House. Special Agent Andrew Shields had promised he’d be waiting at two o’clock. She was fifteen minutes early, time enough, she figured, to get her bearings.

She parked next to a battered station wagon and left the air-conditioned comfort of the Taurus and stepped into the muggy world of Low Country summer. The thick air held the distinct odor of fish and the hum of insects. She walked to the wooden deck that surrounded the ramshackle structure and looked for the door.

She was halfway around the building-still looking-when she heard her name. She glanced down to the dock below and saw a tall, dark-haired man looking up.

“Dorsey Collins?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right up.” He waved, then turned back to the man he’d been speaking with.

Dorsey leaned over the railing and watched a small boat pass under the bridge and head to the dock where the two men stood. Of course, the man who’d called to her was Andrew Shields. She’d have recognized him anywhere. Not because they’d met before, but because she knew several of the other members of the Shields clan and rumor had it they all bore a striking resemblance: tall, athletically built, dark hair and eyes, strong features. Dorsey had worked a case, early in her career, with Aidan Shields, Andrew’s cousin. Even from this far away, the resemblance was unmistakable.

When he reached the top of the step, he put out his hand. “Andrew Shields.”

“Dorsey Collins.” She accepted the hand he offered and shook it. “But I would have recognized you.”

“Because I look like my…who? Brother? Cousin? All of the above? And you worked with one of them at some point.”

“Actually, I did work with Aidan a few years back. And I was in a criminal investigation class with Grady when I was at the academy.” She hesitated before asking, “How is Grady?”

“About as you might expect.” He brushed the query aside and gestured to the front of the building. “Let’s go in and grab a bite, and we’ll talk.”

She followed him around the corner of the building, and stepped inside when he held the door for her. There was one large square room with a dozen or more tables for four set here and there. He gestured to one that had a view of the water below.

“Is this okay?”

“Fine. Thanks.” Dorsey seated herself, placed her handbag on the edge of the table, and reached for the menu.

“Don’t bother with the menu,” he said as he sat across from her. “They only have a few selections, and I can tell you from experience that this place makes the absolute best Low Country boil you will ever taste.”

“What’s in it?”

“Sausage, shrimp, potatoes, corn, spices…it’s really a treat.”

“Sold.”

“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “I can recommend the beer and the iced tea. Anything else, you’re on your own.”

“I’m guessing they don’t have much call for light beer here.”

“You’d be right.” He smiled. “Draught okay?”

“Sure.”

He pushed back his chair and walked to the bar on the opposite side of the room to place their order. Someone dropped coins into an ancient jukebox, and Otis Redding started singing about watching the tide roll away.

“He was from Georgia, you know.” Andrew returned with two glasses of beer.

“Who?”

“Otis Redding.”

“Oh.” She smiled her thanks for the beer and took a sip. It was delightfully cold. “I didn’t know.”

Andrew tapped his fingers on the table, then said, “So, let’s cut to the chase. What is it you want?”

“You’re kidding, right?” She almost laughed in his face. “I thought I made myself clear on the phone.”

“On the phone you said you wanted to stop down to talk with me. You’re here. Now I’m asking what you want.”

She stared at him hard across the table. “Please don’t play games with me, Andrew. You know why I’m here.”

He returned the stare for a long moment.

“Look, I don’t know what John Mancini told you…” She stopped and said, “Maybe we should start there. What exactly did he tell you?”

“He told me that you’d be calling, which you did, and that you’d be interested in the Shannon Randall investigation. You mentioned that on the phone as well. He also said you’d probably want to play an active role but I was to keep your fingerprints off everything. He did say he explained to you exactly what that meant.”

“He did.”

“But what he didn’t say was whether or not his terms were acceptable to you.”

“I don’t recall him saying there was a choice.”

“There isn’t.”

“So what part don’t you understand?”

“I don’t know what your expectations are, Dorsey. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find.”

The bartender waved to Andrew that their order was ready, and he excused himself. Dorsey watched him walk to the bar and retrieve the tray holding two steaming crocks of spicy stew. He set one in front of Dorsey and the other at his place, then set the tray on the table behind him.