Chapter 4
MAREN
As I carry the panels we use to shutter the windows out of the storeroom the following morning, I notice the framed photograph of my mother as a child with my grandparents.
As I study it, I see more similarities between us than I care to admit.
I have the same pale blue eyes and thick lips.
And just like Mom, I have limited friends.
My mother was a coward, but I don’t blame her for it.
Maybe it’s hereditary, because I am too.
I mean, I used to be. But approximately two thousand dollars of therapy has helped me make sense of who I am. It’s also cured me of the notion that if I’d been a more perfect child, she would have stayed.
In fairness, it’s probably hypocritical to believe that she should be able to withstand another minute in my father’s company, given he spoke to her in the same soul-destroying way he speaks to me. So, I get why she left…I just don’t get why she never took me with her.
Or how she could leave without saying goodbye.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to reconcile the years she was abused by my father with her capacity to only save herself.
But only because I think that, deep down, we both knew that my father would hunt her down to the ends of the earth if she took me with her.
Not because he loved either of us, but because he’d fear what it would do to his reputation if we were gone.
So, I only got eleven years with her.
Even now, to keep the peace, I try to give the illusion that everything is fine between me and my father if we’re in public, because the repercussions are ugly if I don’t.
Plus, he sits on so many community advisory boards.
Licensing, among other things. He’s explained in graphic detail just how difficult he could make life for me.
That if I don’t comply with the illusion of family, I’ll lose the license for the cafe, or the airboats, or the bait shop.
Which means there are days when it feels as though my ribs are knitted together with fragile thread. The sound of his tires on the lot outside often makes my stomach flip.
I glance toward the window that faces the dock. Out past the pilings, the marsh is already restless. The wind bends the tall grasses in slow waves, picking up water as it blows across the surface. “Two more panels,” I mutter to my reflection.
I inhale slowly, then breathe out. Slow and steady. One after another. The air smells of brine and motor oil and mud. But beneath all that is the scent of a storm.
Somewhere out in the distance, a boat engine splutters to life.
A brave soul to be sailing now. I’ve still got to move all three of the airboats into the boathouse.
All the shutters that cover the boathouse building’s windows are lowered.
And I lowered the shutters on the apartment above the store before I came to work.
Even moved my food across to the refrigerator in the small hurricane-proof apartment built into the boathouse along with important documents and precious items just in case it lands sooner than we expect.
Once I’ve covered the last two windows on the old building, I unlock the front door and flip the sign to open. I don’t really expect anyone to come in today, but seeing as I’m here, I’d be foolish to turn away a sale.
Every day, my grandfather used to walk through the business.
He loved the rhythm and routine of it. And I follow suit as the wind gently rattles the roller shutter.
I move through the shop in the same order he always did, although he would make mental lists and I record mine on my phone.
The bait coolers are full. I take a moment to restock the hooks and straighten the boat polish near the counter.
“All the dock furniture is in,” Leo says as he walks through the door. He’s wearing the old polo shirts my grandfather used to make the employees wear. I’ve bought new ones in a pale blue. But he prefers the old, faded pale gray ones that seemingly make him disappear into the walls of this place.
“Thanks. We should probably put the sandbags out around all the doors as an extra barrier. Use the wheelbarrow to move them, please.”
“Already done,” he says. “Just gonna bring the rest of the signage from the road into the boathouse.”
One of the joys of Leo having been with this business for so long is that I don’t need to tell him what needs doing. He cares for the bones of this place as much as I do.
But every time I try to suggest he retires, he simply asks what else he could do. Where else could he go to work that feels this much like home? His wife tells me it gives him a purpose that many of his retired friends don’t have and helps her by keeping him out of her hair four days a week.
I’ve joked I’m someday going to retire his bland gray polo shirt to the rafters of the store like they do when a player leaves the NBA.
“Sounds good. I’m just gonna place an order for some new hooks and get the panel that sits between the main door and the roller shutter that covers it. I’ll put it in place tonight, even though it’s not supposed to land until tomorrow evening.”
“Good idea. I’ve seen a few hurricanes in my time, and they’re never as predictable as we’d like them to be,” Leo warns.
“And you should head home soon too. There’s nothing more that needs doing here, and business is going to be dead. Everyone’s at home prepping for tomorrow.”
“Gonna mop the deck then head out.” Leo salutes. “Stay safe, Maren.”
“Same to you.”
Leo has only been gone a few minutes when the small bell over the door rings, and I glance up to see two men step into the shop. They’re new here, not local. Probably on vacation.
“Morning,” I say from behind the desk.
The first guy—the taller of the two, dressed in a sleeveless plaid shirt, jeans, and a ball cap—tips his head in my direction. The other man—stockier, in an old concert tee and cargo shorts—doesn’t acknowledge my greeting.
Must be from a big city, because someone from a small town like this would at least smile in response.
They don’t stop to browse or even glance around the store; instead, they head straight for the desk.
Strangers don’t generally make me feel unsafe, but there’s something about these two that makes me look over to where Leo has appeared with a mop and bucket out on the deck.
He’s wearing his headphones, his back to the store.
“You Maren, the one who runs this place?” the taller one asks. His tone isn’t friendly, but it isn’t openly hostile either.
But the sound of my name on his lips feels…wrong.
“You talked to a guy named Jonathan Paltrow,” the shorter one says. “About six weeks ago, maybe eight.”
I try to keep my expression neutral. “I speak to a lot of customers. I don’t know one called Jonathan Paltrow.”
The taller one steps forward and rests both palms on the counter. “He’d have been asking the whereabouts of a biker called Jackal. Said you told him where he went.”
I think fast. I haven’t told a soul where Jackal is.
Obviously I know, because a couple of months ago, I asked his old landlord, Tony Lewis, for an address to send information about a boat Jackal once said he’d buy if it ever came up for sale, and it has.
Tony now runs the property as a vacation rental, and I know Jackal has stayed there sometimes.
Maybe I should give Tony a heads up that people are asking for Jackal.
But I don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even have a best friend I could have mentioned it to.
Jackal was always decent when he came into the store. He knew who I was—at least, who my father was—but he didn’t let it cloud his judgment like some of the others do.
“We haven’t heard from him since he left,” the shorter man says. “And seeing as you were the last person to see him alive, to the best of our knowledge, you need to tell us where he went.”
The words settle in my stomach like rocks.
I study the two men carefully. While their build is different, they have the same sharp jawline and narrow eyes that focus directly on me. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re related to each other somehow. Brothers, maybe.
“I don’t know who Jonathan Paltrow is,” I say evenly. “His name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You expect us to believe that? Because he was quite clear. He got Jackal’s address from the woman who runs the bait store.”
I feel the old instinct to explain and smooth things over. It’s a reflex that’s been carved into me from years of trying not to set my father off, to avoid his long diatribes about truth and honor.
But I bury the urge deep.
“Look, I run a bait and marine supplies shop. You want an airboat tour, I can book you on one. But I don’t track grown men.”
The bell above the door rings again before either man can respond.
Ridge steps in first, sunglasses still on despite the dim interior, and I’ve never been more relieved to see an Iron Outlaws leather cut in my life.
Sunny follows him in half a step behind.
For many of the bikers, my identity as Caldwell’s daughter doesn’t matter when I own the only bait shop in town.
The two of them often come in for live bait before they go fishing for the day.
And while they rarely speak to me, I’d like to believe they’d help me if this turned into trouble.
Sunny sizes up the two men for a moment before he follows Ridge to the coolers like other customers do.
I glance back to the two strangers.
“You’re running low on ice,” Ridge shouts from the freezer.
The taller stranger glances at the cut on Ridge’s back, and there’s a momentary flicker of recognition.
Makes me wonder if Jonathan Paltrow is a biker.
“Be with you in a second,” I reply. Then, I turn back to the two men and drop my voice back to a whisper, schooling my face so they can’t tell what I’m about to say is a partial lie. “I don’t know Jackal. I don’t know where he is. And I don’t know the man you’re asking about.”
The shorter man looks over to the bikers, then back to me. “You’re protecting them.”
“I’m not protecting anyone. I’m selling bait. Now, if we’re done here…”
Sunny has moved much closer to the desk, still looking in the coolers as if whatever is in there is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
Ridge stalks over and slams a twenty down on the counter without breaking eye contact with the strangers. “Everything good here?” he asks.
The two men straighten slightly. Whatever they were about to start with me, they aren’t willing to continue with two bikers there.
“All good,” the taller one says. “Thanks for your help.”
They leave without another word, and I can’t move until I hear the tinkle of the bell above the door.
“So, how much ice have you got there? You find enough?” I ask Ridge brightly as soon as they’re gone, then tip my chin toward the box of frozen shrimp beneath Sunny’s arm.
Ridge exhales first and gestures to the three large bags of ice he’s carrying. “This was enough. You know them?”
I shake my head. “Must be new in town. Tourists, maybe.”
“What did they want?” Sunny asks.
I debate telling him about Jackal, for a second, but given I don’t know any of the circumstances, I could be doing more harm than good.
Instead, I casually jab my thumb over my shoulder.
“Airboat enquiry.” I make change for Ridge’s twenty and hand it to him.
“For when the storm passes,” I add quickly.
Ridge studies me for a second longer than is comfortable. “Watch what you get mixed up in, yeah?”
The tone suggests it’s more of a threat than consideration.
When they leave, the shop feels smaller than it did an hour ago. The fridge compressors, the ones that still work, sound like a pulsating whoosh. I brace my hands on the counter until the tremor in them settles.
I don’t know who Jonathan Paltrow is.
I didn’t tell anyone where Jackal went, even though I know.
But they think I did. So, regardless of what I do and don’t know, I’m standing in the middle of something bigger.
Watch what you get mixed up in, yeah?
Ridge’s warning rattles in my brain. I want to tell myself it’s nothing, just two men fishing for the location of their friend.
But as I sip my coffee to ease the chill in me, I have a feeling those strangers were dangerous, and I doubt they believed my denials. I just hope I’m not alone if they come back, but I should get prepared in case I am.