Chapter 5 #3
She locked the door. Echo lay down with his head pointed at the threshold, eyes half-closed, the way soldiers pretended to sleep.
Isobel sank to the floor for a moment, back against the cabinet, and let herself feel everything she’d refused to feel while her hands were busy: the fear, yes, but also the small flare of something that looked like trust.
She rose after a minute because rest was a choice like anything else, and she chose the version that would let her think more clearly. She rinsed the bowl, set the kit on the counter, and turned off the light.
In the pre-dawn darkness, the boat’s little noises returned—the tap and hum, the soft whisper of current as it slid along the hull.
She stretched out on the settee, not because it was comfortable but because she could see the door from there.
Her hand found Echo’s ear without needing to search. His tail thumped twice and stilled.
She closed her eyes with the taste of salt and ash still on her tongue and the promise of coffee later like a silly, necessary anchor. Outside, a footstep creaked on the dock. Not Rone’s. Lighter. Stopping at her swim platform.
Echo’s head lifted.
Isobel held her breath.
The footstep faded.
Her heartbeat matched the boat’s slow sway from the current and then outpaced it.
She opened her eyes to the dark, reached for the prayer that had steadied her since childhood, and whispered it into the quiet—only names this time. God’s. Her father’s. Rone’s. The dog’s.
Outside, the dock answered with a long, low groan.
She didn’t remember closing her eyes. One moment, the steady rocking of the boat had lulled her, and the next, a thin band of sunlight slipped through the porthole, gilding the edges of the galley table.
The hum of the generator continued. The marina beyond the window was quiet except for gulls squabbling over breakfast and the lazy slap of water against hulls.
For a moment, she didn’t move—just breathed, letting the memory of the night drift in fragments: the fire, the stranger’s words, Echo’s wet fur against her legs, Rone’s calm voice cutting through the chaos.
He hadn’t come back yet.
She sat up, wincing at the stiffness in her neck, and brushed a hand through her hair. Echo barked at the door.
“Need to go outside?” She unlocked the door and opened it, but before she could attach the leash, he bolted off her boat and ran a few slips over to Rone’s.
The thought tugged a small smile out of her.
They fit together, the two of them—quiet, capable, bruised in ways that didn’t show.
But she also longed for Echo to pick her, the way her father hadn’t.
She shrugged off the notion and brewed coffee, letting the scent fill the galley, grounding her.
She poured two mugs and set one across the table, just in case.
She wanted the man who had known her father to come back and tell her more.
Tell her everything. The act felt foolishly hopeful, but hope was better than fear any day.
Footsteps echoed on the dock outside, firm and familiar. Echo barked once, sharp and happy. Then the soft thud of feet on the deck.
Rone knocked, then opened the door with a growl, eyeing the key.
“I left it unlocked because I figured Echo went to get you.”
“Lock it every time.” He took the old metal key, slid it into the lock and turned it with a click, then dropped the key on the shelf next to the door. “Smells like salvation in a cup. Thought I was supposed to get you coffee this morning. Wasn’t that your order?”
“As if you’d listen to me ordering you to do anything.” She turned, smiling despite herself. “You earned it.”
Sunlight caught his sandy blonde hair through the window. The bandage on his hand was fresh. He’d rewrapped it, probably himself—typical. “You sleep?”
“A little. You?”
“Enough to dream.” He took the mug she offered and blew across the surface. “You shouldn’t have to wake up to this kind of mess. Called the sheriff this morning.”
“I’ve woken to worse.” She leaned against the counter, studying him. “Did the sheriff give you any more trouble?”
He huffed, the sound closer to amusement than irritation. “Depends how you define trouble. He likes to hear himself talk.”
She grinned. “So he’s still breathing?”
“Barely.” Rone sipped. “He’s posting a patrol for a few nights after I reminded him it was an election year. But I doubt whoever started that fire will show his face again.”
“Because of you,” she said quietly.
He met her gaze over the rim of the cup. “Because of us.”
The words warmed her more than the coffee.
“How strange.” She leaned back, exhaling.
“What?”
“This morning feels more normal than one in a long time…”
“Yeah,” he murmured, glancing at her with a half-smile that reached his eyes. “Almost feels like peace.”
The moment stretched—warm, fragile, something unspoken threading between them.
Isobel stood, reluctant to break it but knowing she had to move. “I need to grab something; be right back.”
She climbed the short ladder to the pilot house so she could get that Altoids tin. Something told her this wasn’t just a note to her but a message of some sort, and it had been gnawing at her.
Sunlight poured through the forward windows—too bright at first. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, blinking as the glare softened…
Across the inside of the glass, in jagged red strokes that dripped like blood, two words screamed back at her.
LAST WARNING.
After waiting a half-hour, Sheriff Fletcher came out of his office and waved them inside. Rone could no longer see the words of warning on the pilot house windows, but the blur of it burned behind his eyes all the same.
Echo jumped up, but before he or Isobel could move, Rone bolted through the door and slammed the photo he’d printed off onto the man’s desk. “Someone was close enough to touch her boat. Close enough to stand over her while she slept.”
“She’s lucky,” the sheriff said, leaning back in his chair, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Could’ve been worse. Probably some punk with too much time and a grudge.”
Rone kept his voice even. “A punk doesn’t leave wire to trip a boat owner when coming down steps, or rig power pedestals to blow, or paint a threat across a woman’s window.”
The sheriff’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “You saying I should call in the feds?”
Echo groaned and collapsed by Rone’s side as if bored of hearing this conversation again.
“I’m saying,” Rone said slowly, “you make sure your deputies keep eyes on the docks. She’s selling her boat. Leaving soon. She doesn’t know anything about Shade. Or whatever mess he might’ve left behind.”
The sheriff’s gaze flicked up at that name, sharp, calculating. “Shade again. You can’t seem to let that go. The man drowned. Case closed.”
Rone didn’t flinch. “Neither can whoever did this.”
“Face it, you’re a washed-up detective who failed his partner looking to play hero. You’re seeing things that aren’t there. Guilt will do that to a man.”
Echo jumped up, nudging Rone’s fisted hands. Anger boiled up like volcanic lava, but he refused to explode. Wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction.
Isobel slid the paper to the sheriff. “I hope you’ll take this more seriously. I don’t know much about who Shade was, but my father, the one I knew as a child, had been a great, loving and caring human.
Rone sobered. She shouldn’t have shared that information; now the target would be painted in neon on her back.
“Daughter? Thought Shade had no family. Only a niece who died years ago.”
“Don’t know they are related,” Rone grumbled.
Sheriff Fletcher leaned forward with that arching brow of interest. Rone needed to shut this down and fast.
Echo did a low whimper and trotted to Isobel’s side, nuzzling her hand.
“No relation. Just a lawyer mix-up.” Rone grabbed Isobel’s hand and left without another word to the Sheriff.
He dragged her out into the Florida sun that had climbed high, flattening everything into glare and heat. Isobel walked beside him, her stride clipped and deliberate. He could feel her questions pressing against the silence between them like the tide pushing against pilings.
She halted and yanked her hand free. “What was that about? I’m not his relative?”
He scanned the area. “Not here.”
Echo nudged her with his nose as if to tell her to heed Rone’s warning.
She didn’t speak until they reached Mom’s Breakfast Trailer, an old silver Airstream surrounded by picnic tables and seashell sand mix. “Best cinnamon rolls? I’m in.”
She teased as if lightening the room.
“Breakfast sandwiches are just as good. Everything’s exceptional here.”
“Okay, enough small talk. You didn’t tell him everything.”
“I told him enough.”
“Enough for what?” she asked. “To keep me safe, or to keep your secrets?”
He didn’t answer. Because both were true.
They ordered Mom’s famous cinnamon roll, a breakfast sandwich, and two coffees, then found a table under the faded umbrella with its cheerful pattern of palm trees and sun-bleached parrots. Echo curled under Rone’s feet, a warm, silent shadow. The smell of frying butter clung to the air.
Echo gave him that side-ear, tell-her-the-truth glower.
He wasn’t wrong. Isobel crossed a line that couldn’t be redrawn. If Sheriff Fletcher was in the pocket of who he suspected were connected with the mafia, then he’d share Isobel’s connection to Shade.
“You asked me for the truth. Fine. Here it is. I don’t know that I can protect you now.” He rubbed his throbbing temples. How did he get himself in this situation… again?
“I never asked you to. If you want out of helping me, then walk away, but I’m not giving up the boat, or the chance to figure out why my father really abandoned me.”
Echo let out a whine and set his head on Isobel’s lap.
“Even if it costs you your own life?”