Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Scarlett
I walk.
I want to run, but I will not give that man the satisfaction.
So I walk. Shoulders back. Head up. Tourists bump past me with their maps and their metal detectors and their excited chatter about where to dig. None of them look at me. I’m wallpaper. I’m part of the scenery. A woman with a journal under her arm and nowhere to go.
Dean’s words follow me. They’ve taken up residence somewhere behind my sternum, and they’re not leaving.
You don’t belong here. You never will.
He’s right. That’s what kills me. He’s right about all of it.
I duck behind the marina office where the dumpsters smell of bait and oil. The wall is cool against my back. I press my palm flat against the weathered wood and breathe.
Eight years in television. Five on a nationally syndicated morning show. A name on the marquee. A following. A life built on being liked. And none of it survived three minutes of footage of the worst day of my life.
So, yes, Dean’s right. My career is built on turning real people into content.
I stood in front of a camera every morning and smiled at America like nothing was eating me alive because that’s what they paid me for.
The performance. The version of me that could carry three segments and a cooking demo without cracking.
And now I’m doing it again. Different setting. Same job. Malcolm handed me a story and I took it because I needed the work and I was too proud to admit I had no other options. I came to Port Haven to film a documentary to help relaunch my career beyond Instagram, and leave.
That was the plan.
Then I met the Havens. Then I sat at their table. Then Dean Kinsella kissed me on a porch in the dark like he was trying to start a fire, and I kissed him back like I wanted to burn.
And for one stupid, delusional week, I let myself believe I might belong here.
I push off the wall. My hands are shaking. I tuck them into my jacket pockets and walk.
Main Street is worse than the marina. Every storefront has a cluster of tourists.
Brine and Bean has a line out the door. The Tangled Net has doubled its outdoor seating and still doesn’t have enough chairs.
A drone buzzes overhead, low and civilian, the sound setting my teeth on edge the same way it set Dean’s.
I’m halfway past Old Salt’s when I hear it.
“Scarlett! There you are.”
Malcolm Merrick stands outside the bar with Jasper beside him.
They’ve just come out, both of them. Malcolm’s wearing his expensive casual—tailored jeans, a button-down the color of money, Italian loafers that have no business on a dock.
Jasper looks like he always looks: expensive and mean, his iron-gray hair slicked back, his blue eyes cold as a winter harbor.
Malcolm is smiling. Actually smiling. I’ve never seen him smile like this—genuine, unhurried, the smile of a man who’s just watched something he bet on come in.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.” He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, holds it up. The analytics dashboard. Red lines spiking. Numbers I can’t read at this distance but don’t need to. “Eight million impressions. The conversation is happening. Exactly what we needed.”
I stare at the screen. Eight million people. Planning trips. Booking ferries. Asking where to dig.
“This is what happens,” I say. “This is exactly what Dean said would happen.”
“Dean?” Malcolm’s eyebrow goes up. “Haven’s ferry captain? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” I step back. “He runs the tours. He’s watching his dock fill up with people asking where to start digging.”
“Well, that’s good for business, isn’t it? More tourists, more tours.” Malcolm tucks the phone away. “The north shore permissions came through this morning. We can start filming next week. I’ve already lined up a crew.”
Next week. A film crew. On Colter’s land. Where Hazel plays.
“Malcolm.” I keep my voice even. “The north shore is private property. The Havens graze sheep there. It’s not a dig site.”
“It will be. Once we have the permits.” He says it like it’s already done. “Which brings me to my next point. Bodhi’s zoning dispute. The dock permits.”
The air goes out of me. “What about them?”
“It’s gold, Scarlett. Exclusive access to the family’s financial vulnerability.
The feud, playing out in real time. Permits denied, business threatened, the legacy at stake.
” His eyes are bright. Calculating. “We frame it as David and Goliath. The Havens struggling to keep their head above water while the Merricks thrive. It’s compelling.
It’s human. It’s exactly the angle we need to elevate this from treasure hunt to something with real stakes. ”
I stare at him. “You want me to use Bodhi’s financial troubles as content.”
“I want you to tell the truth. The Havens are drowning. Their businesses are failing. The dock permits are just the latest symptom.” He steps closer. “That’s not spin. That’s reporting.”
“It’s exploitation. You’d be using their private financial information to—”
“To tell a story people will care about.” His voice has an edge now. The pleasant mask hasn’t slipped, but it’s thinner. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You find the human angle. You make people care.”
Jasper hasn’t spoken. He’s been watching me with those cold eyes, arms crossed, the gold of his watch catching the light. Now he shifts his weight and says, “You forget who you work for, Ms. Crawford?”
The question hangs between us. Old Salt’s door is propped open behind them. Inside, I can hear Whiskey Jim’s voice, the rise and fall of a story being told to a packed house.
“I haven’t forgotten anything, Mr. Merrick.”
“Good.” Jasper’s mouth curves. Not a smile.
Something predatory. “Because we rescued you. Your career was ash. Your name was a joke. That clip followed you everywhere. We offered you a lifeline when no one else would.” He takes a step toward me.
Not threatening. Just close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
“We control what happens next. This piece. The next one. Whatever comes after. That’s the arrangement. ”
My skin crawls. I hold my ground.
“The arrangement was a documentary segment about a local legend. Not an exposé on a family’s private finances.”
“Then adjust your understanding.” Malcolm’s voice is quiet now. Deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that’s more frightening than shouting. “The story is bigger than the treasure. It always was. The treasure is the hook. The feud is the heart. And the heart doesn’t beat without conflict.”
I look at both of them. Malcolm with his calculated generosity. Jasper with his naked cruelty. Two versions of the same thing—control, dressed differently.
“I won’t do it,” I say. “I won’t use Bodhi’s permits as content. I won’t frame the Havens’ financial struggles as drama for your show. If that’s the angle, you need another reporter.”
Malcolm’s jaw tightens. Just once. Then he smooths it away.
“Think about it. The production company is invested. They’ve greenlit a full series contingent on the north shore footage.
Walk away from that, and what do you have?
A three-minute segment about a sea lion and a story no one will remember. ”
“I’ll have my integrity.”
Jasper laughs. The sound is ugly. “Integrity doesn’t pay rent, sweetheart. Ask the Havens. They’ve got plenty of integrity. Look where it got them.”
I turn and walk. My heart hammers against my ribs. I don’t look back. I can feel both of them watching me, Malcolm’s disappointment and Jasper’s contempt following me down the street like a chill.
I make it to the dock before my knees buckle.
Not literally. I don’t fall. But something gives. I stop at the end of the public pier, grip the railing, and stare at the water. The harbor is full. Boats coming and going. The ferry loading for the 3:15. Tourists with backpacks and water bottles, pointing at maps, laughing.
I have nowhere to go. The Tidewater feels like enemy territory now. Malcolm’s resort. Malcolm’s cameras. Malcolm’s version of the story waiting in my inbox.
And the Havens? What are they to me? A family that took in a stray for one night. A dinner I was invited to because Mimi has a heart bigger than her sense of caution. Dean was right about that too. They’d adopt a rabid raccoon if it showed up looking sad enough.
I am the raccoon.
The journal is still under my arm. Evangeline’s words. Eight years of silence. A woman who walked to a pier twice a week and never spoke to the man she was watching because she knew, with the same certainty I know the sound of fog moving over water, that some distances cannot be closed.
I understand her better now than I did this morning.
A boat engine cuts through the harbor noise. I don’t turn. I know the sound of it.
Dean’s boat slides into its slip.
I watch from the corner of my eye. He ties off. Kills the engine. Steps onto the dock, and freezes when he spots me.
I brace.
It comes. “Still here.”
Two words. Flat. Exhausted.
I turn to face him. “Where else would I be, Dean? You made it very clear I have nowhere to go.”
He rubs the back of his neck. Looks at the water. Looks at me. Looks away again. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” I push off the railing. “Don’t backpedal. Don’t soften it. You meant every word. You looked at me this morning and you saw everything you hate—the camera, the performance, the woman who turns real people into content—and you said it out loud. So own it.”
He’s quiet for a long time. The dock creaks. A gull lands on a piling beside us and watches with one yellow eye.
“You’re trying to push me away,” I say. “That’s what this is. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide I don’t matter and then be mad when I believe you.”
His shoulders drop. Just a fraction. “I was trying to scare you off.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t protect everyone.” The words come out rough. Raw.
And before I can ask what he means, he walks away.
Captain swoops down and lands on the rail beside me, cocks his head, and mutters, “Rude.”
“He sure is.” I laugh. It’s either that or cry. “The ornery bastard.”
“Ornery bastard,” Captain agrees.
“Good boy.” I stroke a finger over his head, and he preens under it. “You make sure you repeat that to Dean loud and often.”