Chapter Two
REID
THE FOG THAT rolls in this morning is so thick I can barely make out the boats in the harbor as I trek down the rocking, weathered dock. It’s the kind of dense fog that is easy to get tangled in. I would know, having spent ten years as a Navy SEAL—years I’ve worked hard to leave behind me.
I cast my eyes on the empty slip beside me where The Maybird should have docked an hour ago.
I hate when boats are late, not because I care about the schedule, but because late means one of two things—engine trouble, or something worse.
I try not to think about the something worse.
I came here to leave my pain and guilt in the past. To mind my own business and keep my head down.
I don’t need to be tangled up in anything.
I know that, but it’s in my nature to look beneath the surface.
I can’t always pretend I don’t wonder what’s really coming in and out of this quiet marina.
I lift my coffee to my lips. It’s lukewarm and bitter, but I take a long, slow sip anyway.
The dock creaks under my boots with the retreating tide.
A skiff to my left bobs lightly, the hull groaning like it has something to say.
But it’s otherwise quiet and calm, no sound but the water licking the pilings and the rustle of marsh grass behind me.
It should be peaceful but instead, it feels… off.
Across the inlet, the gulls are restless, circling above the shallows like they’ve been summoned by something. I crush the paper coffee cup in my fist and scan the area. Not a soul in sight, save for the few crabbers, always out before dawn, their skiffs gliding through the channel like ghosts.
I lift a hand in greeting to one of the commercial captains I have seen countless times. I don’t know his name, but I know his boat: The Salty Lady. He and some others rent slips and sell their haul to the buyers two towns north of here. They keep to themselves.
“Reid.” A voice startles me.
I turn to find my childhood best friend, Tate Maddox, approaching.
“It was supposed to be my turn to open.” He stops beside me.
I shrug. “What else have I got to do? I don’t sleep much these days.” I thrive on routine, a creature of habit.
Tate shoots me a look that tells me he knows this.
He’s the brother I never had. By the time we were ten, we could read the tides like clockwork.
We knew which creeks ran dry by noon and which ones hid redfish under the reeds.
We baited crabs with slices of white bread we’d stolen from our parents’ kitchens.
We caught minnows in mason jars and knew how to cut an engine and drift or speed through the marshes.
Sometimes we fished, and sometimes we floated.
We could always tell a storm was coming by the way the herons flew.
We were barefoot and mud-slicked, but the marsh taught us patience. The water taught us respect.
After high school, I joined the SEALS and Tate took over his dad’s marina.
When I finally left my post behind, Tidehaven was the only place I wanted to come back to.
I grew up here, raised by a single mama and the rest of the neighborhood after my dad took off.
But she left when I left, and we don’t have much of a relationship these days.
I run a hand over the dock railing, checking for loose bolts.
I shouldn’t care this much—I only own thirty percent of this place—but it feels more mine than anything else in my life lately.
Tate and I built half of these improvements together.
Hell, the reason I bought into Driftwood the month I left the military is because I needed something solid to stand on again.
“The Maybird is late,” I tell him, jerking my head in the direction of the empty boat slip.
“Johnny called me. Engine trouble. He was waiting for a Coast Guard tow,” Tate reassures me. “I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t suspect it’s anything more than that.”
I let out a growl, raking my hand down my face.
I’ve been out of the SEALs for two years now, but my senses are always heightened.
My mind maps exits and worst-case scenarios before I can stop it.
I came back here to reset. I’ve connected with some veterans groups, and I’m doing the work, but it’s not easy walking around with all this anger inside me.
The safest thing I know how to do is keep to myself.
“You know I can’t stop my mind from wandering,” I say, turning away, my eyes scanning the horizon.
“You need to.” Tate’s voice is clipped. He slaps me on the back. “Gonna go open the bait shop.”
He starts back up the dock, leaving me to slowly walk slip to slip, checking the lines.
I finish my rounds, checking each one off on my clipboard, noting that The Maybird still hasn’t returned.
I tuck my pencil behind my ear and look up.
Beau Rigsby, a gruff Alaskan commercial fisherman I’ve known for years, is already out on his boat, Miss Tidehaven, hauling up his first crab pots.
Even on weeks off, he’s still out on the water on his own boat.
You’d think he’d be sick of it. He gives me a nod from the wheelhouse, one hand on the throttle, the other around a thermos of God knows what.
By seven, Tate’s got the bait shop lights flickering on behind our no-frills, open-air tiki bar, The Drift Net.
By eight, I have fixed a busted hose nozzle and restocked the fuel dock bins.
Then there’s nothing left to do but putter around the bait shop and The Drift Net.
By two, my phone is ringing. I pull it out of my pocket. Tidehaven Research Center.
“Reid,” I say, forgoing hello.
“Reid, it’s Kayla.” A young girl’s voice comes through the line. “I need your help.”
Kayla Cruz is a high school senior. She lives in Tidehaven, but since it’s so small, she attends high school in a neighboring town.
Kayla loves marine biology, and Penny let her use the labs for her own experiments.
After Penny died, the university needed someone local to keep things from falling apart until a new director showed up.
I didn’t ask for the job, but I don’t mind it.
It keeps the place open—for Kayla, if nothing else.
Who knows? She may be running it herself one day.
“What’s up, Kayla?” I ask, raking a hand through my beard.
“It’s the skiff at the research center. I can’t get it started again, and I only have a couple of hours to get these samples.” The urgency in her voice makes my lips twitch.
“I’ll be right over.” I hang up without saying goodbye, but Kayla is used to that.
When I get there, she is leaning against the dock post, eating a granola bar and wearing a Tidehaven Research Center baseball cap that’s seen better days. She grins at me.
“You ever take a day off?” she asks, watching as I step into the boat and get right to work on the lines.
“I’m off now,” I mutter.
“That’s a lie.” Kayla squints at me.
“You want this boat to float or not?” I shoot her a look.
Kayla grins but doesn’t press me further.
I get the motor open, and my hands move on instinct.
The place has been too quiet since Penny died, but Kayla’s kept coming anyway.
Says it helps her feel close to Penny and the work they were doing.
I don’t pretend to understand marine biology, but I understand wanting to be somewhere that still makes sense.
“I heard the new director is getting in tomorrow,” Kayla says carefully.
I look up from where I’m tinkering with the motor. “Who told you that?”
“Tate. Do you think she’ll be…nice?”
I loop the last line and sit back on the boat’s tiny bench, letting out a sigh. I never like anyone the first time I meet them. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
Kayla winces then says, “Do you think she’ll let me keep using the lab?”
I frown at her. “How should I know?”
“Well, you’re in charge right now. Maybe you could tell her. I don’t need much. Just a corner. I’ll help with whatever project she’s working on. Data entry. Fieldwork. Coffee runs. I’m very useful.”
Kayla’s face is so earnest it forces a smile out of me.
“Why don’t you tell her yourself?” I give Kayla a pointed look and start the skiff. The engine sputters, then roars to life.
She smiles so wide her eyes crinkle. “Yay! Thank you!” She’s hopping on her toes and moves to hug me when I climb out of the boat.
I hold up a hand, preventing it, and start back up the dock. “Don’t mention it.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to say you’re welcome, you know!” Kayla calls after me. “You grumpy oaf.”
I turn around and give her a nod, but I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from quirking upward. “You’re welcome. Lock up when you’re done.”
Her smile is blinding.
I head for home and an ice-cold beer, already knowing I’ll be right back here tomorrow if she needs me.
I MAKE THE short trek back to my cabin, the place I’ve come to call home.
When I was growing up, my mom and I lived in the same neighborhood as Tate.
A typical rural coastal neighborhood of modest ranchers built in the sixties, long before the invention of Wi-Fi.
I can still picture it—colorful houses with sun-warped siding, crab traps leaning against the side of the house.
The occasional pair of waders left out to dry.
Everyone had mismatched porch furniture and faded American flags, but they knew each other’s dogs.
Curtains rustled when a stranger pulled in, and grief moved through houses like tropical storms.
I grew up at the dead end of the street in a sky-blue rancher.
My dad’s jon boat sat up on cinderblocks under a tarp in the driveway long after he left us.
But the neighbors looked out for each other—looked out for me.
I could have gone anywhere when I got out, but I came back here.
I like knowing people care. I just don’t need them watching my every move anymore.
I trek through the path to the clearing where my modest log cabin sits in all its glory.
When I came back, I slept on Tate’s couch for a year while I built this place.
It gave me something to do to channel all the pent-up anger and regret I carry around inside me for things I can’t undo.
Now that it’s done, I need to find another outlet.
I march up the steps and unlock the door, moving inside only to grab a cold Miller Lite before coming back to the porch. I sit in a rocking chair and kick off my boots, letting my bare feet rest on the white cedar planks. It’s modest, but it’s mine.
I take a long swig of beer just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, not knowing what to expect. Not many people text me.
Tate: Yo. The new director arrives tomorrow. I told the University you’ll meet her at noon at The Drift Net.
I frown at my phone. Me? What the fuck. I hammer out a reply.
Me: Why aren’t you meeting her?
Tate: Because you’re in charge of the research center.
Me: Dude.
Tate: DUDE.
Me: I guess I’ll see her at noon.