Chapter 4 #2
It should have embarrassed her—the restaurant lights, the closeness—but instead it felt like air after drowning.
Her father’s choices had stolen so much, twisted memory into something sharp, but here was Rone, giving her one thing back.
A truth she could live with, that she chose to believe for a few minutes of her life. I was loved.
Her fingers tightened on his hand, holding him there, just for a beat longer. He didn’t pull away. Not until Echo’s nose nudged her shin under the table, a dog’s reminder that life kept moving whether she was ready or not.
Isobel exhaled, a shaky laugh slipping out with it. She eased her hand free, the absence of his touch immediate, almost cold. But the warmth of his words stayed, curling deep in her chest where the ache had lived only minutes before.
When they walked back to the dinghy, she kept her hand on Echo’s head longer than necessary. The dog leaned into her like he understood. She wished she could lean back the same way.
The entire dinghy ride back, she reminded herself that this was just a man who wanted her to leave. That he would only hurt her if she truly let him in; despite talking about love and honesty, she wasn’t here to connect with anyone. She never wanted to connect with anyone again.
She reminded herself of that when she slipped into her nightgown and crawled into the oversized, empty berth.
She reminded herself, when she closed her eyes and longed for happy dreams, that she didn’t need a man to protect her or show her compassion.
She reminded herself when she woke up in the middle of the night that she didn’t need anyone.
She curled into her pillow and held it tight, allowing herself one moment to believe there was a truly honest man out there who could hold her through the pain and tears.
A crack split the night. Isobel bolted upright; her heart lurched her out of bed before her mind caught up.
She sprinted down the hall barefoot, the floor cold against her feet.
Smoke bled through the cockpit door, stinging her eyes, pulling her forward.
She pressed to the window, sparks flared from a pedestal.
A man stood there—dark clothes, face lost in shadow—outlined in the glow like something pulled straight from a nightmare.
Rone snapped awake to Echo barking and snarling at the cockpit door. Then the sound of someone yelling. Not a drunk kind of shout. A sharp, panicked crack across the night air.
He was on his feet before his mind caught up, bare soles hitting the cabin sole, Echo already up, hackles stiff. The smell reached him then—ozone, acrid, wrong—and his chest locked around it. Burn. Electrical.
He shoved his legs through his shorts, threw open the door hard enough to rattle the latch, and hit the deck running.
The pedestal next to Family First glowed ugly in the dark, a bright spit of orange sparking at the outlet, hissing like a live snake.
White smoke curled into the humid air, sweet with melted plastic, bitter with burning insulation.
A man stood beside it, shoulders hunched, face hidden by the halo of sparks.
Isobel reached the dock at the same time he did.
Rone didn’t think. Training and bone memory took over. “Isobel—back inside. Now.” His voice was a flat command, no room for doubt.
She didn’t listen and lunged for the man across the dock from her.
Echo dropped into a crouch, chest pressed to the deck, waiting for the word. Good dog.
Rone’s strides ate the dock. But when the frame of the man told him it was Lucky from the Jefferson 48 two boats down, he yanked the red extinguisher from the piling box on the way, thumb snapping the pin free without a glance.
He hit the pedestal hard, palm slamming the E-STOP button above the meter.
The pedestal buzz died in an instant, the feed gone silent.
Still, the fire licked at the cord collar, hungry.
He squeezed the lever. The extinguisher whoomped, a punch of white powder billowing out, sweeping short and steady over the flame’s base.
Smoke, powder, plastic stink—it filled his lungs, burned his eyes.
He didn’t stop until the hiss flattened, until the flame guttered and choked under the pale blanket.
Silence. Just his breath and the low rumble starting in Echo’s throat.
Rone crouched low, scanning. The collar had melted, glossy beads hardening on the dock.
Too clean, too precise. And there—bright scratches at the hinge screws.
Someone had been in the box. He touched the breaker lever, came away with a smear of grease that stank of petroleum. Not accident. Not neglect. Tampering.
“Leave him be,” he choked out between coughs, but Isobel clutched Lucky’s shirt tighter, yelling as if he were the man who took her father from her. “Easy. Lucky didn’t do this. Trust me.”
She snapped her attention to Rone, blinked a few times, and then shook her head as if whatever anger had grabbed hold of her released long enough for her to realize she’d scared Lucky into hiding in his boat another three months before he’d surface again.
Poor man was one foot from being an official recluse.
A shadow shifted under the dock. Water moved wrong—sliding against the pilings like a body cutting through. Echo’s growl deepened, teeth catching light. Rone’s gaze snapped to the slip—too late to catch more than a ripple, a glimpse of something slipping away. Line cut. Silent retreat.
“Rone?” Isobel’s voice cut through, closer than he wanted. She stood at the top of the dock, nightgown whipping in the cross-breeze, fists clenched at her sides, refusing to flinch. She was scared—he saw it in her eyes—but she wasn’t giving ground.
She stood dangerously, distractingly beautiful.
“Stay there.” His voice came low, but gentler. “Finger’s dark. It stays dark till I say different.”
He traced the feed, confirmed cold air on every hot point, then pulled the plug free, laying the softened collar down with care.
The cord jacket bore a neat slice—deliberate, like an invitation to arc when the mist hit copper.
He ground his jaw. Someone wanted her spooked.
Or worse. They were escalating to make their point. Whoever they were.
Echo’s stare dragged him to the water again, a ripple breaking, then gone. Rone’s skin crawled with the certainty: this wasn’t random.
He turned back to Isobel. Her hair had come loose, strands plastered against her cheek by the night air. She stood exactly where he told her to, no argument, no reckless move forward. Just steady, waiting. He felt it settle in his ribs like a weight: responsibility, whether he wanted it or not.
“You sleep inside,” he said, closing the distance between them. “Deadbolt locked. Echo between you and the door. I’ll rerun your A/C off a clean gen cord I can see.”
Her chin lifted, pride flaring for a beat, but then she nodded once. Small. Enough.
A sharp pop cracked down the dock, ten slips over. Blue fire spat into the night, a new pedestal coughing sparks. A neighbor cursed, lights flared, gulls scattered in a screaming cloud.
Rone moved, extinguisher back in his grip, body angled to shield Isobel without thinking. Echo launched at his side, nails hammering wood.
A third caught fire.
Somebody wanted war on this dock.
Al, a dock employee and resident, came running down in Christmas pajama pants and t-shirt.
“Echo, with me.” Rone’s voice came low and even. The shepherd tucked to his knee and flowed where Rone flowed, all tendon and judgment.
Two slips down, another spit of light flared blue. Then a fifth, farther along the main dock, the kind of stuttering glow that said somebody had popped breakers open with a screwdriver and dared the marina to catch up.
Al took the farthest one while Rone took the one closer to him.
A woman shouted for help. Somewhere, dogs barked. Every owner on the docks knew where the extinguishers lived, but piecemeal wasn’t going to beat this.
Cut the snake at the head.
Rone sprinted. Boards thudded underfoot—heat, damp, the brackish iron smell that rode Estero Bay at night.
He vaulted a coil of line, felt Echo’s shoulder brush his shin, and blew past a weathered sign that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY like it had authority.
The marina’s main breaker panel crouched in the shadow of the utility shed—locked, obviously.
The padlock was cheap, hardware-store brass, scored where somebody with more time than he had had taken a run at it and quit.
“Stay,” he told Echo, and the dog braced like a doorstop.
Al appeared out of the haze, coughing. “If you were aiming to light up the marina for Christmas, you nailed it. Maybe next time start with the on switch?”
“Got the key?” Rone asked.
Al shook his head.
Rone yanked the pry bar from its hiding place under the lip of the fish-cleaning table—some habits weren’t legal but they were useful—and jammed it into the hasp.
The metal shrieked protest; his shoulder answered with a grind that remembered too many doors and too many bad nights.
He gave it one more mean, decisive jerk.
The hasp tore. The locker yawed open on a breath that smelled like dust and ozone.
One glance, and his fingers went to work—sequence, not speed.
Left bank first, then the right, then the main.
Orange died up and down the dock like somebody had snipped a string of Christmas lights in one slice.
Voices rose—confused, relieved, mad—while the water went back to reflecting stars instead of emergency.
He didn’t let himself feel anything like victory. The nights that let you feel it were the ones that took it back.
“Go,” he told Echo, and ran for the nearest living flame.