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John and Terry's office was a converted bedroom down the main hall of the Johanneses' house. The two men had taken a lot of ribbing about the fact they worked from home. Their independent contractor computer consulting business had expanded over the years into developing software for bank systems and large corporations. Because of this, John and Terry often took turns flying to locations all over the world, to help set up the software and to train people in using it. As a matter of fact, John had first met Izumi while on a business trip to Japan. Now, Terry was in Hong Kong, counting down the days till he could return home to Three Mile Bay.

Abby sat down on her stool in front of the easel and began to sketch out a scene onto her canvas. Natural light shone through the window behind her, as she etched out the fluid lines of a heron. She gazed at the canvas, and then tossed aside her pencil. Abby was too distracted to concentrate on her work.

She glanced up at the clock. It wasn't even ten yet. Don't misunderstand, Abby wasn't eager for Jake to come, for she was as set against him as at the first. However, all of her preconceived notions of who ex-convicts were and what they were like, had not stopped her from being curious. As the minutes ticked by, she became restless. After she had eaten lunch, Abby donned her fishing gear and went outside to her favorite fishing spot to get her mind off of Jake.

She cast her line gently onto the water, without making any splashes that would scare away her quarry, and looked off into the horizon thoughtfully. Abby thought over what Tyler had told her when he met her at church on Sunday.

"Don't forget, I'm still waiting for my answer," he had said.

The sincere look in his eyes had confused Abby.

"Tyler can be so compelling, when he wants to be," sighed Abby, with a small laugh.

She expertly cast her fly line over her shoulder, while tugging at the slack at the appropriate time, to give her line more forward thrust-- a maneuver anglers call double hauling. After her fly landed several feet in front of her, Abby reeled in a little to tighten her line.

"It's getting rough," she observed to herself, seeing whitecaps breaking on the water in the distance.

A strong gust of wind blew into her mouth, temporarily robbing Abby of her breath. The gale began to pull at her long black hair, whipping it into her face. Just then, her line tugged as a smallmouth bass took the hook!

"Easy there," muttered Abby, adjusting the tension on her fly line.

Abby gently pulled on the line, nudging the fish in her direction. Slowly but deliberately, she reeled him in and scooped him up into her net. Abby deftly grabbed the priest, a wooden handle with a metal head, and swiftly dealt the fish a blow over the eyes, stunning it so it wouldn't feel anything when she finished it off with her knife.

All the while, the water was becoming more restless. As she finished cleaning her catch, a torrent of rain descended on the bay, pelting Abby with hard droplets of water. Collecting her gear, she made her way to the house just as the Sheriff's squad car pulled up. The window rolled down and Sheriff Peterson's familiar voice greeted her.
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