16. Off Balanced
Off Balanced
Elias
N othing says small-town authority quite like the municipal building—varnished wood, stale coffee, and the faint scent of frustration that seeped into every hallway. Places like this existed to remind people how little power they actually had; you could smell it in the recycled air.
I pushed through the frosted glass door to Victor’s office without bothering to call ahead, my footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.
Victor looked up from behind his polished mahogany desk, his smile already sliding into place with the practiced ease of a politician who’d spent years perfecting sincerity in front of a mirror.
His office was a shrine to self-importance: leather-bound books he’d never read, diplomas from schools he liked to name-drop, and framed photos of himself shaking hands with people whose names carried more weight than his own.
“Elias,” he said warmly, though his pale eyes measured more than they greeted. “Please, sit.”
I remained standing, hands loose at my sides but ready. Victor had summoned me here with a text that was casual enough to sound innocent but pointed enough to feel like a threat.
Nothing was ever convenient when it came to Victor.
“Coffee?” he asked, gesturing toward the expensive machine that probably cost more than most people in Harbor's End made in a month.
“I'm fine.”
“Of course you are.” His smile widened, showing teeth that were too white and too perfect. “You've always been fine, haven't you? Even when you shouldn't be.”
We traded a few minutes of small talk that felt like foreplay before a knife fight.
Town projects, the upcoming spring festival, property developments that would bring Harbor's End into the twenty-first century whether it wanted to come or not.
The conversation was polite on the surface but weighted underneath, like we were fencing with words instead of blades.
Victor leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers in a gesture I remembered from childhood. He'd always been theatrical, always conscious of the impression he was making, always playing the role of the smart one, the successful one, the brother who'd made something of himself.
“The waterfront development is moving forward nicely,” he said, his voice carrying just enough satisfaction to make my skin crawl. “Several property owners have already signed on. Economic growth, job creation, the kind of progress Harbor's End desperately needs.”
“Good for them.”
“Yes, it is. Of course, some people are more resistant to change than others. Some people prefer to cling to the past, even when it's clearly not working anymore.”
The words were casual, conversational, but I heard the blade underneath. Victor had always been good at wrapping threats in pleasantries, at making aggression sound like concern.
“Elaine would have understood the vision,” Victor said, his voice taking on a reverent tone that made my skin crawl. “She always appreciated beauty, potential, the possibility of transformation. She would have seen what Harbor's End could become instead of clinging to what it was.”
The way he said her name—like a prayer, like a wound—made something cold settle in my stomach.
“Don't,” I said quietly.
“Don't what? Speak about her?” His smile sharpened.
“I fell in love with her the first time you brought her to Sunday dinner at our father's house, you know. She was luminous that night. Alive in a way that made everyone else in the room seem half-asleep.” His pale eyes grew distant, bitter.
“But she only had eyes for you. Always you, even when I was the one who understood her dreams.”
“Is there a point to this?” I asked.
“Actually, yes. There's been some talk around town. Questions about certain... relationships that might be developing.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my expression neutral. “What kind of questions?”
Victor's smile sharpened, predatory now instead of merely practiced. “People are curious about Rowan. Wondering why he's sticking around Harbor's End when he clearly has nothing keeping him here. Wondering what might be influencing his decision to stay.”
The way he said Rowan's name made my hands clench into fists. Like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue to see how much damage it could do.
“He has her eyes, you know,” Victor continued, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. “The exact same shade. The way they catch the light when he's trying not to show pain— it's remarkable. Like having her back in the room, watching you replace her with the closest available substitute.”
“That's not what this is.”
“Isn't it?” Victor's pale eyes glittered with satisfaction. “A grieving widower, a vulnerable young man who looks exactly like his dead mother. It's almost poetic, really.”
“What about it?” The words came out even, but there was an edge underneath that Victor caught immediately.
“Oh, nothing specific. Just idle curiosity about whether certain people might be taking advantage of a certain someone.”
The accusation hung in the air between us, unspoken but unmistakable. Victor knew. Maybe not the details, maybe not the specifics of what had almost happened between Rowan and me, but he knew enough to be dangerous.
“Leave him alone,” I said, my voice dropping low and hard. It wasn't a request.
“I'm not the one you should be worried about.” Victor's pale eyes glittered with satisfaction.
He'd gotten the reaction he'd been fishing for, the confirmation that there was something worth threatening.
“But people talk, Elias. They see things, they make assumptions, they draw conclusions that might not be... favorable.”
“Conclusions about what?”
“About a grieving widower who's developed an unhealthy interest in his dead wife's son. About inappropriate relationships and the kind of scandal that could destroy reputations, businesses, entire lives.”
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Don't I?” Victor stood up, moving around his desk with the predatory grace of someone who sensed weakness.
“I know you, Elias. I know how you think, how you feel, how you make decisions based on emotion instead of logic.
I know that you're lonely and damaged and desperate for connection, even if that connection comes from the most inappropriate source possible.”
“Fuck you.”
“Elaine should have married me instead.” The words came out casual, conversational, like he was commenting on the weather. “Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
The blood roared in my ears, drowning out everything except the need to hurt him. To wipe that smug smile off his face, to make him pay for every casual cruelty, every calculated insult, every moment he'd spent making other people feel small.
My hands were already moving when rational thought kicked in.
This was what he wanted. The reaction, the loss of control, the proof that I was exactly as unstable as he'd suggested.
Getting arrested for assaulting my own brother would only confirm every suspicion he was already spreading around town.
I forced my hands to unclench, forced my breathing to slow, forced myself to take a step back instead of forward.
“Stay away from him,” I said quietly. “Stay away from me. And keep your mouth shut about things you don't understand.”
“Or what?” Victor's smile was pure provocation now. “You'll make me? You'll destroy my reputation the way you're destroying your own?”
I turned and walked out without another word, my jaw aching from the effort of holding back everything I wanted to say. The municipal building's hallway felt like a tomb, all echoing footsteps and fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly and wrong.
The anger rode with me all the way through the cold streets, my breath sharp in the winter air as I walked without destination.
Harbor's End looked different when you were carrying rage like a weight in your chest. Smaller, meaner, full of windows that might be hiding eyes that watched and judged and whispered about your business to anyone who would listen.
The truck's engine ticked as it cooled in the gravel parking area overlooking Gull's Point.
I'd driven here without really deciding to, muscle memory guiding me along the winding coastal road while my mind wrestled with the conversation I'd had with my father earlier.
His words about taking chances, about not letting fear make my decisions, echoed in the cab long after I'd turned off the radio.
Through the windshield, the Atlantic stretched endlessly, gray-green water catching the last light of evening.
This had always been my thinking spot, the place I came when Harbor's End felt too small and my problems too large.
The rocky outcropping jutted into the sea like an accusation, waves breaking against stone that had withstood centuries of storms.
I was reaching for the door handle when I heard it—the faint sound of guitar strings carried on the salt wind. The melody was tentative, incomplete, notes that started strong then faded into uncertainty. Someone was down on the rocks, hidden from view by the angle of the cliff.
My boots found purchase on the worn path that switchbacked down the rocky face. The music grew clearer with each step, revealing itself to be something melancholy and searching. The guitar stopped and started, the player working through changes, hunting for something that felt right.
When I rounded the last bend, I found him.
Rowan sat on a flat boulder maybe twenty feet from the water's edge, acoustic guitar cradled in his lap.
His dark hair caught the wind, and he'd pulled on a thick sweater that made him look younger somehow, more vulnerable.
He was completely absorbed in what he was playing, fingers moving across the fretboard with the unconscious grace of someone who'd been making music since childhood.