Chapter Thirty #2
May Sweeney told me once that scientists migrate. Just like the caribou, she said. They come for the season, take what they need, and follow the funding south. She wasn't wrong, as a general rule.
She was just wrong about this one.
"So," Reid says, slapping his beer down hard enough that Rhys flinches and re-aligns the coaster underneath it.
"I submitted the P-404 Incident Report to the insurance agency a couple days back, all about the damage to the Kingfisher's hull.
Filled it out myself. And I was thorough—I photocopied the pages out of Rhys's logbook. Wind speeds, wave heights, everything."
"You what?" Rhys sets his glass down with surgical care, the way a man does when the alternative is throwing it. He's still in his green apron from closing up the store. "Those are my logs. My name is on those pages.
"You told the insurance company we took your charter boat into a Force 10 gale to fight wolves?" His eyes go wide with horror behind his glasses. "Reid. Reid. You do not write that down. You do not hand them a confession. You say it was a rogue wave. You say it was an iceberg. You round."
"I don't lie on federal forms, Rhys," Reid says, puffing out his chest. "I'm a captain. Captains tell the truth. We embellish, sure, but only in person, never on paper. The truth is deductible."
"The truth is expensive," Finn mutters into his beer.
"It's fine," Reid insists, waving a dismissive hand. "I have a pristine record. They'll cut the check, I'll fix the hull plating myself, and the Kingfisher will be ready for the derby next week."
"I don't think so," a voice says from behind us.
The voice is cool, crisp, and carries a distinct lack of warmth.
I turn. Standing at the end of our booth is a woman who looks entirely out of place in Yeti's Tavern. She's wearing a tailored black wool coat buttoned to the throat and heels that look like weapons. Her hair is pulled back in a severe, glossy knot, and she's holding a tablet like a shield.
She looks at Reid. "Reid Hollister?"
"That's me," Reid says, flashing the easy grin of a man who has never been in serious trouble in his life. "Can I help you? If you're looking for a lighthouse tour, we're closed until—"
"I'm not a tourist," she cuts in. She taps the screen of her tablet. "I'm Mercy Sterling. Senior Fraud Investigator for Pacific Maritime Mutual."
Rhys snorts into his drink. "Her name is Mercy? Oh, you are in so much trouble, brother."
The woman, Mercy, doesn't even blink at Rhys. She keeps her eyes pinned on Reid.
"I received your P-404 claim this morning," she says. "You admitted to piloting a Class B passenger vessel into a Force 10 storm event. You admitted to taking the vessel outside of designated shipping lanes. And you admitted to using a commercial tourism boat for …'tactical animal control?'"
"It was a rescue," Reid says, his cocky grin faltering for the first time. "It was an emergency."
"It was a breach of contract," Mercy says. Her tone is flat. "Clause 17, Section D. 'Willful Endangerment of Insured Property.' You just handed me a signed confession that you voided your policy."
Reid stands up, looking offended. "Now wait a minute. I have paid my premiums on time for five years. I run the safest boat in the harbor."
"Not anymore," Mercy says. She reaches into her bag and slaps a red tag onto the table.
"As of 1400 hours today, your policy is suspended pending a full forensic audit.
That means the Kingfisher is grounded. If you move that boat from the dock, you're operating without liability coverage.
Which means you lose your captain's license. And your business license."
The table goes dead silent. For a man like Reid, whose entire identity is tied up in that boat, this is worse than a physical blow. It's an execution.
"You can't ground me," Reid whispers, horrified. "I have the Winter King Derby charter next week. The mayor is coming."
"Then I suggest you help me finish my audit quickly," Mercy says, buttoning her coat. "I need to see your maintenance logs, your fuel manifests, and your passenger waivers for the last three years. I'll see you at the lighthouse at 0800 tomorrow. Don't be late."
She turns to leave, then pauses, looking back at him with eyes like flint. "And Mr. Hollister? Don't try to fix the hull damage before I document it. If I find one fresh weld on that hull, I'm denying the claim permanently."
She walks out. The silence she leaves behind is heavy.
"Mercy," Rhys muses, watching the door swing shut. "I think her parents were being ironic."
"She grounded me," Reid says, sinking back into the booth. He looks pale. "She suspended my coverage. She's coming to my lighthouse. She's going to go through my filing cabinets, Rhys. My filing cabinets. The ones where I keep the napkins."
"She's going to eat you alive," Finn notes helpfully.
"No," Rhys says slowly, going paler than Reid.
"She is going to eat me alive. You keep napkins.
Who do you think keeps your maintenance logs?
Your fuel manifests? Three years of waivers?
" He takes off his glasses and polishes them on the green apron, a man rescheduling his entire winter. "They're in my files. At my dock."
I look at Aris. She's hiding a grin behind her hand.
"Well," I say, lifting my glass and clinking it against Reid's motionless beer. "You wanted to tell the truth on a federal form, Reid. Looks like the truth just walked in wearing heels."
"And she has really nice shoes," Aris adds.
Reid puts his head in his hands. "I hate this family."
I pull Aris closer and stop trying to say anything at all. The bar is loud. My brothers are impossible. Outside, the snow is doing what it always does.
Aris tips her mouth to my ear. "Take me home, Nash."
Ten years I lived in that house. It took a caribou, a wolf pack, and one stubborn scientist to make it a home.
"Yes, ma'am," I say. And I do.
Thank you for reading Misty Meadows.