Chapter 3 #2
I want to ask her if she knows Dean, but decide to stick to small talk and pleasantries until I know her better. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She takes a sip of her wine. “Likewise. Don’t let him overwhelm you with the whole treasure hunt pitch. He’s been rehearsing that speech since I was in diapers.”
The whole vibe of the room suddenly changes.
Malcolm’s expression doesn’t move, but there’s a snap to his quiet voice when he says, “Cordelia.”
Corey’s grin holds for a second longer, then collapses. She reaches for her wine and drains the glass.
There’s a beat of awkward silence, then Malcolm’s cordial smile returns like nothing happened and turns to the man at the far end of the table. “And this is my brother Jasper.”
Jasper Merrick nods, a sharp dip of the chin, and his cold blue eyes hold mine two full seconds past comfortable.
He’s big—broad through the shoulders, heavy-featured, iron-gray hair combed back off a face that looks carved out of something that resents being carved.
Gold watch. Ring on his right hand that catches the light when he reaches for his whiskey.
“Ms. Crawford.” His voice is gravel wrapped in silk. “Malcolm tells me you’ve got quite the following.”
“Instagram, mostly. It’s been a useful platform for human interest work.”
“Eight million.” He swirls the whiskey and the ice clinks against the crystal tumbler. “That’s a lot of people, for someone who hasn’t been on the air in, what? Two years?”
Theodore shifts in his chair. Corey’s boots come off the rung and hit the floor.
“Jasper,” Malcolm says.
“I’m just curious how she works.” His unnerving gaze continues to hold mine. “You’ve got Malcolm’s materials now. Maps, papers, the family documents. Where does all that live? Cloud, or do you keep hard copies?”
“Both,” I say. “Digital for access, physical for verification.”
“Hm.” He drinks. “And when you write something up. Who sees it first?”
“My editor. When there is one.”
“That’s the thing about a project like this.
” He sets the glass down and folds his hands, and every movement is unhurried, a man who has never in his life been rushed by anyone.
“There isn’t one. It’s just you, and us.
Which means we’re relying on your judgment about what belongs in the story and what’s just family business.
” He tips his head. “You understand the difference, I’d assume. ”
“I understand that my job is to report what I find.”
“Your job.” He smiles for the first time, and it doesn’t improve anything. “Your job is the one we’re paying for.”
“Jasper handles business development,” Malcolm says. “He’s very thorough.”
“Thorough.” Jasper gives a short laugh. “That’s a word.”
Theodore asks me, a little too brightly, about the transition from print to broadcast, and the moment breaks, and lunch proceeds like choreography.
Malcolm returns, again and again, to my follower demographics, engagement rates, projected tourism lift.
He asks how quickly a post travels. He asks whether I’ve considered doing something live from the water.
Not once does he ask what I think happened to Evangeline Merrick.
Theodore asks about the stories I’m proudest of, and listens to the answers.
Corey tells me about tourist disasters, about her cousin Abel’s pet rat, Bilge, about the sea lion that took a sandwich out of a man’s hand and then barked at him for objecting. She’s funny, and she’s fast, and every time she gets going, I catch Malcolm watching her.
“Speaking of the harbor,” I say. “I’m booked on a tour this afternoon. With Dean Kinsella?”
Theodore’s eyebrows go up. Corey’s grin comes back. Jasper’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tighten on the glass.
“Dean.” Malcolm sets his fork down. “Yes. He’s... quite knowledgeable about the island.”
“He’s also the grumpiest human being on this or any planet,” Corey says. “But he knows every rock, every current, every story worth knowing. If you want the real Port Haven, he’s your guy. Just don’t expect small talk. Or medium talk. Or really any talk.”
“He was less than thrilled about taking me out.”
“Dean is less than thrilled about everything. It’s his factory setting. Don’t take it personally.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “But I hear he went in the harbor after your suitcase, so he definitely doesn’t hate you.”
Jasper sets his glass down hard enough that whiskey sloshes over the rim. “He did what?”
The room goes quiet.
“It was nothing,” I say. “I tripped getting off the ferry. My bag went in. He got it out.”
Jasper isn’t looking at me. He’s looking down the table at his brother. “She booked her own boat.”
“She arrived a day early,” Malcolm says.
“That’s not what I asked.” Jasper’s voice doesn’t rise.
It flattens. “You had one job with this. She shouldn’t have been able to book so much as a parking space on this island without one of us knowing about it, and her first afternoon here she’s on a Haven boat, with him, getting fished out of the harbor like a stray. ”
“It’s not a problem.”
“It sure the fuck is a problem. It’s a headline. Dean Kinsella doesn’t go in the water for strangers. Especially not strangers working for us.” He turns back to me, eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re on the right side of this?”
I laugh. Because what other response is there to such a ridiculous question? But he continues to glare at me, expecting an answer.
“A good journalist doesn’t take sides,” I say after a beat.
“That’s cute.” He picks the whiskey back up.
“But you want to. We didn’t bring you out here to tell the Havens’ version.
You’ll find this island’s a small place, Ms. Crawford.
Everybody eats where we do. Everybody docks where we let them.
It’d be a real shame to spend a season here on the wrong end of that. ”
“Jasper.” Malcolm’s voice is quiet. Final.
Jasper holds his brother’s eyes for three long seconds. Then he shrugs and reaches for the wine.
“Just making conversation.”
Nobody says anything about it. Theodore asks whether I’ve been to the diner yet. Corey mentions the eagles. Malcolm signals for dessert.
Theodore is Abel’s father, it turns out. Once I know, the resemblance is obvious.
Malcolm walks me to the elevator himself.
“I hope that wasn’t overwhelming. Family meals can be complex.”
“It was illuminating,” I say.
“Good.” He presses the button for me. “I’ve set up a workspace for you at the library in town. Historical materials, maps, everything we’ve compiled on the legend. Use it however you see fit.”
“And the journals?”
“In due course.”
The elevator arrives. He holds the door with one hand.
“One more thing. My brother is protective of this family. He has reasons. But if anything he said made you uncomfortable, I’d like to apologize for it.”
He doesn’t say a word about whether Jasper was wrong.
“Thank you,” I say.
The doors close.
Back in my room, I stand at the window and look down at Port Haven. Somewhere down there is a ferry captain with storm-cloud eyes and a scar through his eyebrow, who jumped into cold water for a woman he’d known for an hour and then told her to stay away from his family.
And more than anything else in this town, I want to know his story.
I pull out my phone. No signal in the room, but the resort Wi-Fi is strong enough to launch satellites.
I scroll through the photos I took today—the harbor from the ferry, the weathered storefronts, the diner’s neon sign buzzing against a gray sky.
I pick the best three, filter them until the light goes moody and cinematic, and write a caption that’s careful and neutral and says nothing at all.
Port Haven, Day 1. This place has stories. I’m here to find them. #PortHaven #Washington #TreasureHunt
I hit post and set the phone down.
It starts within minutes. The comments. The likes. The shares. People I’ve never met tagging friends, planning trips, talking about the Fairchild treasure like it’s a thing already waiting to be dug up.
Changes the narrative, Malcolm said. That’s what changes the narrative.
I pick the phone back up and read my own caption again.
I open my notebook instead. Three lines on the page, in my own handwriting.
Journals? Won’t produce them.
“Ask what happened to my—”
Everybody docks where we let them.
I look at those for a long time.
Then I turn to a clean page and start a list of everything Malcolm Merrick told me today, and beside it, a second list.
Everything he didn’t.