Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The cursor blinked against the dark screen like a pulse. Isobel stared at it until the glow blurred and the lines of text doubled. Her eyes burned from days of scrolling through files she barely understood—ledgers, coded messages, photos of docks and faces and signatures that made her skin crawl.
Somewhere between the first and the thousandth file, she’d forgotten what she was searching for. Maybe it wasn’t an answer anymore, just a piece of something solid she could believe about her father.
Rone sat across from her, silent but close.
The lamp he’d rigged with a red bulb washed the cabin in muted light, soft enough not to bleed through the blinds.
The laptop’s whirring fan filled the space between them.
Outside, night had surrendered to the thin gray of dawn that painted the cove in fog.
To their relief, a cold front came through, chilling the air, providing relief since they couldn’t chance running the generator. Christmas music danced on the wind from far off, reminding her of the season.
Her hand trembled when she clicked another folder—Legal_State_Evidence_2007. Rone leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His body still radiated alertness even after no sleep. “Careful,” he murmured. “Some of these are duplicates of federal archives. Could be bait.”
She nodded, though her pulse was a drumline against her ribs. “Then let’s find what it’s baiting.”
Inside the folder was a series of numbered case files—each marked with dates and strings of initials. She scrolled past pages of transcripts until one caught her eye:
STATE OF FLORIDA VS. L. DE SANTIS (WITNESS: SHANE DANIELS)
Her mouth went dry. “Rone…”
He was already moving closer, his shadow falling across the screen. “Shane Daniels. Shade.”
Isobel opened the file.
At first, it was just legal jargon—charges, witness statements, procedural notations. But then…
Witness granted conditional immunity in exchange for full testimony against the organization known as the Laurel Tide Group. Protective custody to follow sentencing. Official record to state subject deceased in custody transfer, per federal directive.
She blinked at the words, her heart clawing upward into her throat. Air hollowed from her lungs. “They faked his death.”
Rone exhaled hard through his nose, his hand braced against the table. “They made it look like he was killed in prison. Standard deep cover misdirection. But this—” he tapped the screen “—this means the feds helped him disappear.”
Her thoughts stumbled over themselves. “He wasn’t killed… he was hiding. His name had been Shane. My father, Mel Lane. That wasn’t his real name; that’s why I could never find a trace of him anywhere. That’s why my mother would never tell me the truth about why he’d left us.”
Rone’s gaze softened. “Hiding from them. From Laurel Tide.”
She scrolled down, her pulse pounding in her ears. The next document was a memo—fragmented, blurred at the edges like it had been scanned too many times.
Subject: Relocation Assignment Pending. Recommend full identity wipe. Subject requests non-contact clause with remaining family due to risk level.
Isobel’s breath caught. “Non-contact clause…”
Rone looked at her, but she couldn’t stop reading.
Subject cites personal relationship with civilian (redacted). Request rejected for another relocation of subject and civilian. Civilian aware of subject’s full background.
Further down.
Subject agrees to reintegrate into former life; in exchange, all information of previous testimony and relationship with civilian wiped from the record. All WITSEC records destroyed and relationship with civilian redacted.
Her throat burned. “The civilian has to be my mother.”
Rone didn’t speak. His silence was the kind that meant he already knew.
“He left her.” Her voice cracked, soft and raw. “Not because he wanted to. Because they made him. But there’s no mention of me. A child.”
He leaned back, rubbing a hand down his jaw, eyes fixed on the wall like he was watching actors play out a story he didn’t want to see.
“I’m guessing he never even told the authorities you existed.
No paper trail or evidence that way. He was keeping you safe from birth.
If he broke with Laurel Tide to turn state’s evidence, he had a target on his back the size of Florida.
They must’ve found out he was alive somehow, and he tried to broker a new deal. ”
Isobel’s whisper trembled. “They must have. That’s why he left us.”
Rone nodded once, grim. “And when they did, he went back under a new story—like he’d never left. He knew that if they found out he wasn’t dead, he needed to return or they’d never stop looking.”
Her chest ached so fiercely she pressed her fist against it. “Why didn’t they agree to a new relocation?”
“Because he had more value if he reintegrated into Laurel Tide.” Rone turned toward her. “He couldn’t risk them tracing him to you or your mother. So he built walls. Lied to everyone. Even the people who loved him.”
“He didn’t lie,” she whispered. “He protected us.”
Rone didn’t argue.
She leaned back, staring at the screen as though her father might appear between the lines of typewritten history.
The next file was a personal log—short, unformatted text files labeled with dates. The first opened with a single sentence:
If you have this, I’m already dead.
Her breath hitched. The sound that followed from Rone was low and human, part groan, part prayer.
She kept reading.
I was twelve when Laurel Tide found me. Twelve when they taught me the difference between loyalty and survival. I thought I’d die there. Then I met her.
Isobel’s vision blurred. “My mother.”
Rone’s hand brushed the table, near hers but not touching. “Keep going.”
She taught me that I was worthy of love and that no one else should own me.
Then I found out I would be a father, and I knew I wanted to be there for my child.
To give that baby every opportunity I never had growing up.
For a while, I believed I could wash it all clean.
New name. New life. I should’ve known better. Tide always comes back in.
The next line trembled under her eyes.
If my daughter ever sees this—Isobel, I love you. I never stopped watching the water, waiting for a chance to come home.
Her hand flew to her mouth, but the sob broke through anyway—a soft, wounded sound that echoed off the cabin walls.
Rone stood without hesitation. He crossed to her and crouched beside the chair, both hands on her legs. “Hey. Easy.”
She shook her head. “He was alive all this time. And I hated him for leaving.”
“You didn’t know.”
“But he did. He knew what it would do to us.” She turned toward him, eyes red, voice cracking. “He chose the lie.”
Rone met her gaze. “He chose to keep you breathing.”
Silence folded between them, heavy but not empty. Outside, the faint slap of water against the hull filled the space their words couldn’t reach.
After a long moment, Isobel drew a shuddering breath and wiped her cheeks. “There’s more.”
She scrolled through the final entries. The logs became erratic—disjointed sentences, coordinates, fragments of what looked like supply manifests. And one last note:
Isobel,
They discovered you’re my daughter. They tracked down Sara and discovered she had you.
The only way to protect you now is for you to get Rone to help.
There is proof in this file that Laurel Tide used the docks.
Not just for drug smuggling—but for chemicals, weapons, people.
Find Rone. He’ll know what to do. Don’t trust anyone but him.
I’m so sorry. I thought I could keep you from this, but all I could buy you is a chance.
Rone froze. “He named me.”
She looked up at him, heart thundering. “He trusted you.”
He swallowed hard. “Or he damned me to finish what he started.”
Her fingers trembled over the trackpad. “What does it mean—people?”
“Trafficking,” Rone said, his voice gone to gravel. “Not just drugs. Not weapons. People.”
The word landed like a stone in water, rippling through every breath that followed.
She sat back, arms wrapping around herself. “They found out about me, though.”
He nodded once. “And they killed him before he could save you. He must’ve worked to get all this, risked his life to keep you safe, but he didn’t manage to get it to someone that could help.”
The air in the cabin thinned. The fog outside pressed against the windows, thick as smoke.
Isobel rose and moved to the porthole, bracing a hand against the cool metal frame. The tide was turning again, the current dragging the water outward toward open sea.
“All this time,” she whispered, “I thought he abandoned us. But he was fighting for us.”
Rone came up behind her, not too close. His voice was low, rough. “Now it’s ours to finish.”
She turned, meeting his eyes. “Then we finish it.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just gave a single slow nod.
The laptop fan clicked louder, its blue light painting the table where her father’s final words still glowed. Outside, something creaked—the sound of the line to the anchor pulling tight. The tide was shifting again, pulling everything that wasn’t anchored closer to open water.
Rone reached for the laptop, shutting it softly. “We move at next tide.”
“Where?”
“To the mainland. Somewhere quiet. We need fuel and provisions and to send what we have to my contact. Somewhere they won’t expect.”
She hesitated, her gaze falling to the collar still on the table. “And Echo?”
His eyes darkened. “We give him a shot to run by getting this evidence to my contact at the FBI. Echo will find his way back to us. My contact will set up a meet.”
“You trust him after they failed my father? Why not just email the files and take a picture of the casing?” she snipped, tears threatening to spill again.
“Because we get deal in writing first and then they can have the drive. Now get some sleep.” He pointed to the master berth.