Chapter 2
Two
MADDEN
The ferry deck was a parking lot with railings.
We sat in two tight lanes, engines off, windows cracked.
Heat shimmered up from the metal around us.
Somewhere behind me, a toddler announced for the fourth time that his popsicle had “died,” which earned sympathetic laughter from a row of sunburned adults in matching neon shirts that said FAMILY VACAY.
I stayed in my car with the seat pushed back, elbow on the sill, watching tourists take pictures of each other against the sliver of water you could see through the gaps.
Phones up. Peace signs. Duck lips. A girl in a floppy hat recorded a slow pan of the horizon like she was panning across the Grand Canyon instead of a sound dotted with crab pots and a handful of sails.
Los Angeles had taught me how to disappear.
You could walk three blocks there and shed one life for another.
Hatterwick was the opposite. Here, you collected lives you couldn’t set down—daughter, cousin, the girl who left, the woman who came back.
You didn’t vanish on Hatterwick; you got recognized, cataloged, recounted, misremembered.
You became a story whether or not you wanted one.
A deckhand in a reflective vest appeared at the head of the lane, hand up, then rotated it in a lazy circle that meant “get ready.” Doors thunked as people climbed back into their cars.
Keys turned. Engines rumbled awake. The ferry shifted under us as the crew brought the ramp down.
A cheer went up somewhere on the upper deck, because apparently ramps lowering were content now.
I checked my phone while we waited for the front row to move.
Astrid:
You close?
Madden:
On the deck. Should be off in a few.
The dots popped up immediately.
Astrid:
I’ll meet you at the marina. Text me when you park.
Madden:
Will do.
I set the phone face down and put both hands on the wheel. My palms were damp.
We rolled in a slow, patient crawl. The sight line widened to the dock and the squat building with the snack bar and the rack of brochures advertising fishing charters and ghost walks.
A kid in a life jacket bounced on his toes on the pedestrian side, waving like we were a parade.
When it was my turn, I eased down the ramp and felt the ferry let us go.
The road off the dock was the same and not.
New paint, wider shoulder, fresh striping that would have to be redone in a couple of summers.
Banners announced a summer concert series in cheerful fonts over names of bands I didn’t recognize.
The gift shops had multiplied, colorful as candy; the old ice cream parlor still sat in its pretty pink shell like a time capsule someone had dusted.
For a block, I let myself scan the street for Gwen the way I always did—out of habit more than hope. It was a reflex. It hurt anyway.
My cousin wasn’t here.
She never would be again.
I followed the familiar route around the curve of the harbor, past the line of charter boats rocking lazily in their slips, until the old marina came into view.
It had been upgraded by the new owners sometime since my uncle had sold the business.
I spotted upgraded slips, fresh wood, new signage.
Rows of masts swayed against the sky, and beyond them, anchored in its usual spot, sat my uncle’s houseboat—a broad-hulled relic with white sides and chipped blue trim.
The paint was dull from years of sea air and neglect, but the name was still clear on the stern: Second Wind.
I just hoped it could be that for me.
I parked in the open marina lot, cutting the engine.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
For a long moment I just sat there, watching the shimmer of light on the water.
I hadn’t set foot on this dock since before everything fell apart—before my cousin Miles’s arrest, before California had burned through what was left of my faith in the world.
Now I was back with too many ghosts and nowhere else to go.
I texted Astrid that I’d arrived and opened the door.
The air hit me like wet velvet when I climbed out.
Damn, but I’d forgotten the oppressive humidity of the island in July.
Sweat prickled instantly between my shoulder blades as I popped the trunk and pulled out my laptop bag.
The rest of my luggage could wait until I got the keys turned, and the boat opened up.
The dock boards flexed underfoot as I walked, the wood sun-bleached and hot enough to feel through the soles of my sneakers.
Every sound was amplified—the clank of rigging, the cry of a gull, the low murmur of water slapping against hulls.
Most of the slips were full. Summer season was in full swing.
A charter captain cussed amiably at a knot in a tone that told me business was good.
A girl in a cover-up practiced a toe-touch jump off the end of a finger pier while her mom warned her not to break her neck in a voice that had “first day of vacation” optimism baked in.
By the time I reached the Second Wind, my nerves buzzed. The boat looked smaller than I remembered. No cheerful deck chairs now, no potted basil on the rail. Just a closed-up cabin and windows dulled by dust and time.
I stepped aboard, and the hull shifted under my weight, a slow, sleepy protest. The lock was stiff and the door sticky, but they both gave, and air that had been shut in too long slid past me—hot, stale, edged with old varnish and something like cardboard.
I propped the door open with my hip and reached for the little breaker panel.
I flipped the breaker switch and was relieved when the lights flickered to life.
Stale, but not dead. A good sign. Another switch had the little fan above the stove sputtering to life.
I set the bag down on the bench and moved around the cabin, propping open windows to get some cross ventilation going.
“Could use a welcome committee,” I muttered.
As if summoned, quick footsteps sounded on the dock outside.
“Madden? You here?” Astrid’s voice carried that same confident energy I remembered from high school—sharp, bright, always three steps ahead.
“In here!”
I heard the thump of sure feet climbing aboard.
A moment later, she appeared in the doorway, and the boat seemed less empty by half.
Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled into a functional ponytail; her sunglasses were propped on her head; she wore a tank and shorts and the kind of sandals you could hose off without guilt. Her grin spread wide. “You made it!”
“I did.”
Without warning, she darted in for a quick, tight hug, and for a second I forgot how to hold myself up. It had been so long since I’d had anything so uncomplicated as a hug from a friend. I relaxed a fraction, letting myself return the embrace.
“It’s good to see you.” She stepped back to study me in that quiet, assessing way she had. “You look… tired, but mostly okay.”
“Mostly okay is generous.” I gestured toward the door. “Bags are in the car.”
We fell into motion the way you do with people you used to see every day: easily, without having to narrate it.
The walk back along the dock was shorter with someone beside me.
The parking lot buzzed—a woman wrestling a beach umbrella into the back of a rental, a couple arguing about check-in times, a guy trying to convince his dog that the unfamiliar grate wasn’t a trap.
Astrid took the heavier suitcase without waiting for a debate.
She hoisted it up. “What’s in this, lead?”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone, so I packed for all contingencies.”
That earned me a lifted eyebrow, but Astrid said nothing as we trudged with the last of my stuff back to the dock.
By the time we reached the boat and set the bags inside, the little fan had started to make an actual difference.
I opened another window in the aft, and the air shifted enough to carry out a layer of stillness.
Astrid stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyes sweeping the cabin and taking stock. “Not gonna lie—I can’t believe your uncle’s still got her.”
I followed her gaze around the narrow galley, taking in the scuffed countertop and the curtain with a faded compass print. “I guess he couldn’t quite let go.”
“Yeah.” She leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb. “After your folks left the island, and the Busbys sold their place, I figured this old girl would’ve gone next. Too many memories tied up in her.”
“That’s exactly why he didn’t,” I said quietly. “It’s one of the last pieces left of Gwen.”
Astrid nodded, her expression softening. “Makes sense.”
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable, just full of the things we both remembered but didn’t say out loud. The search parties. The vigils. The way people used to glance at me back then out of the corners of their eyes, like proximity was contamination.
Astrid blew out a breath, shaking it off. “Well, she’s still afloat. And she’ll do you fine until you figure out what’s next.”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “Such as it is.”
“Good.” She hesitated, her thumb making slow circles against the worn leather of her watchband—a nervous habit I remembered from high school.
When she finally looked back at me, there was something careful in her expression.
“So, what actually happened out there? In California, I mean. I heard you got fired, but we both know gossip’s like a game of telephone on this island.
By the time it reaches the third person, you’re either a disgraced criminal or a whistleblowing hero. ”
I grimaced as that familiar knot tightened in my chest. “Yeah, that’s… not exactly wrong. Technically, I resigned.” The word tasted hollow in my mouth, like I was still trying to convince myself it had been my choice.
Her brows rose, and I caught the skeptical tilt to her head. “Technically?”
“I was told the optics for me were better if I did it myself.” I tried to make it sound like old news, but the words still sat like grit on my tongue. “So I did.” Because I’d cared more about salvaging what was left of my reputation than I did about unemployment benefits or severance packages.
Of course, that had been before I realized exactly how wrecked my reputation was anyway. Before I understood that resigning wouldn’t stop the whispers in courthouse hallways or the way colleagues would suddenly find urgent reasons to end phone calls when I walked into a room.
Astrid’s eyes softened, and I saw something that looked dangerously close to pity cross her features. “Jesus, Mads. That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed hard, focusing on the way the boat rocked gently beneath us rather than the sympathy in her voice. “Not my best year.”
She tilted her head, studying me with the same intensity she’d probably use to examine an injured sea turtle. “You here to lick your wounds, or start over?”
“Bit of both, maybe.” I shrugged, trying for casual and probably missing by a mile. “I’m still working out what that looks like. Hell, I’m still working out what I want it to look like.”
“That’s fair.” She gave me a crooked smile that reminded me of summer afternoons when we were kids, before everything got complicated.
“You always did hate sitting still. Even in elementary school, you’d finish your worksheets and then reorganize your desk just to have something to do.
Maybe that restlessness is what you need right now. ”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Don’t curse me like that.”
“Might be good for you.” Astrid pushed off the doorframe as her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She glanced at the screen and sighed. “I’ve gotta head back to the research station before the summer interns accidentally feed a pelican a glow stick or try to tag a jellyfish.
But I’m glad you’re here. Really. It’s been too long. ”
“Thanks. It really has.” I found that I actually meant it. “It’s good to see you, too. Good to see someone who doesn’t look at me like I might spontaneously combust.”
“Lunch or dinner later this week? There’s this new place that opened up where the old bait shop used to be. Surprisingly good fish tacos.”
“Sure. That sounds perfect.”
She reached out and gave my arm a gentle squeeze, her hand warm against my skin. “Text me when you come up for air, okay? Don’t go full hermit on me.”
Then she was gone, her footsteps echoing down the weathered dock planks before fading into the general hum of the marina. I watched through the small porthole as she walked back toward shore, her ponytail swinging with each step, until she disappeared behind a cluster of masts and rigging.
I sank onto the narrow bench beside my laptop bag, suddenly exhausted in the way that comes after holding yourself together for company.
Looking around the small cabin, I took in the way afternoon light filtered through the open hatch above, casting shifting patterns on the worn vinyl cushions.
The boat swayed gently beneath me, a rhythm I’d forgotten I missed.
For the first time in a long time, there was nothing I had to prove. No case to build, no reputation to salvage, no next move to calculate three steps ahead.
Just me, the quiet lap of water against the hull, and whatever came next.
For right now, that was giving this whole place a good clean. It might not help me take control of my life, but taking control of my space would be a start.
That was as much as I had in me right now.