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wasn’t hiring a crazy to
    work in her mother’s kitchen, her son’s home.

    “Call me Jericho,” he said.

    She cleared her throat. “Fine. Do you have any—”

    “I washed dishes in the Army.”

    Margred set her bus tray on the counter. “You were in the Army?”

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    He nodded.

    “Iraq? My husband was in Iraq.”

    “Yes, ma’am.”

    Regina bit back a groan. Of course he would say that. He’d probably
    say anything to get a job. Or a handout.

    “We’re not hiring,” Antonia said.

    Margred frowned. “But—”

    Jericho picked up his pack. “Okay.”

    That was it. No resentment. No expectations. His flat acceptance got
    under Regina’s skin, made them kin somehow.

    She scowled. Nobody should live that devoid of hope. “You want to
    wait a minute, I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said.

    He turned his head, and she did her best to meet that haunted, eerie
    gaze without a shudder.

    “Thanks,” he said at last. “Mind if I wash up first?”

    “Be my guest.”

    “He trashes the restroom, you clean it up,” Antonia said when the
    door had closed behind him.

    “I can clean,” Margred said before Regina could bite back.

    Antonia sniffed. “We can’t feed everybody who walks in off the
    street, you know.”

    Regina was irritated enough to shove aside her own misgivings.
    “Then maybe we’re in the wrong business,” she said and stomped into the
    kitchen to make the man a sandwich.

    She glanced up the apartment stairs as she passed. Nick had already
    visited the kitchen to eat his lunch and punch holes in the pizza dough.
    But she could call him down for a snack, shoo him outside to play.

    41

    Summers were tough on them both. School was out while the restaurant
    stayed open longer hours. Nick had more free time, and Regina had less.

    This summer for some reason had been worse. Maybe because Nick
    was old enough now to chafe at his mother’s restrictions. Regina rubbed
    the headache brewing between her eyebrows. She ought to be able to
    sympathize with that.

    “Nick,” she called.

    He was silent. Sulking? She’d been short with him this morning.

    Distracted, Regina thought guiltily, trying hard not to remember
    Saturday night, Dylan’s hands on her hips as he moved slickly, thickly
    inside her.

    No sex on the beach was as important as her son.

    “Nicky?”

    The restaurant cat, Hercules, meowed plaintively from the top of the
    stairs.

    No answer.

    Worry trickled through her. On World’s End, everybody knew
    everybody’s business. Every neighbor kept an eye on every child.
    Children here still walked to the store alone, still played on the beach
    unsupervised.

    But she’d told Nick and told him not to leave the restaurant without
    telling her. There were dangers on the island, too, tides and fog and
    gravel pits, teenagers in cars, strangers with haunted eyes . . .

    Regina shook her head. She was not letting herself get spooked
    because some homeless guy had wandered into the restaurant looking for
    work and a sandwich.

    Knowing she was overreacting, however, didn’t keep her palms from
    sweating, didn’t stop her heart from hammering in her chest. When you
    were a single mom, there was nobody to share the worry or the blame,
    and so the worry doubled and every danger assumed terrifying
    proportions. Anything could threaten this tiny person who had been

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    entrusted to you, your baby, your son, the best and most inconvenient
    thing that had ever happened to you, and it would all be your fault
    because you hadn’t been taking care, you hadn’t wanted him in the first
    place.

    Regina forced herself to release her grip on the stair railing. Okay,
    definitely overreacting now.

    She opened the unlocked door to their apartment, Hercules darting
    between her ankles into the empty living room.

    “Nick?” She cocked her head, listening for the sound of the
    television, the gurgle of water from the bathroom.

    But he was gone.

    43

    Four

    NICK BARONE EYED