Chapter 3 Sin
THREE
SIN
The Boathouse sits on the edge of Tidehaven’s marsh like it grew out of salt and stubbornness.
From the road it looks like a renovated relic, all weathered brick and wide steel doors, the kind shrimp boats used to back into when this place still smelled like diesel and brine and hard labor.
Now it smells like bleach, coffee, and gun oil. Progress, I guess.
The tide is low. Mud flats glisten under the late-day sun, and the marsh grass sways like it’s whispering secrets to itself. The driver turns into the lot, and my eyes sweep the perimeter out of habit. He parks where we can see the main entrance and the boat bay door. No blind spots. No surprises.
Rowan sits in the back seat, sunglasses off now, face angled toward the building. Her expression is casual enough to fool someone who doesn’t do this for a living.
I know better.
Her knee bounces once, quick and subtle, then stills like she caught herself doing it.
Her fingers tighten around her tote strap, knuckles pale for half a second.
She’s scared. She’s also fighting it the same way she fights everything else, by turning it into a joke before it can turn into a problem.
The driver cuts the engine. “We’re here.”
“Ready?” I ask her.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” I open the door. “Come on, it’s headquarters for the company your mom hired.”
“Sure.” She sighs. “Headquarters for fishermen. Or pirates. Or fisherman pirates.”
I glance at her. “You want to stay in the car, that’s an option.”
Her chin lifts. “I’m not staying in the car. That’s how women end up in documentaries.”
“Fair point.” I get out first, circle around, and open her door. Not because she needs help. Because I like controlling entry and exit. Because if anything comes at us, it’s coming at me first.
Rowan steps down, tote on her shoulder like she’s walking into a networking event instead of a security facility.
She looks up at the building again, eyes tracking the big boat-bay doors and the cameras tucked into the corners of the structure.
She notices everything. That’s part of why she’s in this mess.
“Salt & Steel,” she murmurs. “Your people?”
“Yeah.”
“And they’re… good?”
I meet her gaze. “They’re paranoid. Which is what you want right now.”
Her mouth twitches, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Fantastic. Nothing says comfort like professional paranoia.”
“Stay close,” I tell her.
“I’m right here.”
“That’s the point.”
We head toward the entrance. The building is solid, heavy. Reinforced doors. Keypad. Camera lens angled to catch faces, not just movement. A discreet intercom. I punch the code and the lock releases with a soft click.
Rowan’s shoulders loosen a fraction when we step inside, like the barrier matters more than she wants to admit.
The main floor opens into a wide space that still carries the bones of the old cannery.
Tall ceilings. Exposed beams. Concrete polished smooth.
The boat bay to the left holds two rigid inflatables on trailers and a smaller craft lifted on a rack.
There’s a dive locker wall beyond it, rows of wetsuits and tanks and gear labeled with names.
The tactical gym sits on the right, mats and heavy bags, a squat rack built like it could survive a hurricane.
Everything has a place. Everything is clean in that way that says someone here has control issues.
I work here when I’m not deployed with the US Navy as a SEAL.
Up above, a glassed-in loft overlooks the entire floor. The Bridge. Ops windows tinted slightly so the people inside can see out without being seen.
Rowan tilts her head, taking it in. “This is like if a CrossFit gym married a Coast Guard station.”
“Don’t insult them like that.”
She snorts quietly, and I catch it for what it is. A release valve. A woman trying to keep herself from cracking.
Footsteps echo from the back corridor. Calder Hayes appears like he owns the oxygen.
Late-thirties. Tall. Built in a way that doesn’t scream gym rat but does say he can put you on the ground if he wanted to.
Dark hair, calm eyes, expression set to “I have handled worse than whatever you brought me.”
He wears a fitted black long-sleeve with the Salt & Steel logo stamped small on the chest. Jeans. Boots. No visible weapon, which means he has at least two.
“Sinclair Hawthorne,” Cal says as he approaches. His voice is steady. “When do I get to have you working here full time?”
I laugh. “I’ve got a few months before re-enlistment.”
Cal asks, “And what are you going to do?”
I suck in a deep breath. “With the case with my father I’m thinking about sticking around more.”
Cal smiles at that. “Well, there’s always a full-time position here if you want it.” His gaze turns to Rowan. “You must be Rowan.”
Rowan’s smile is bright and automatic. “Hi. I’m the inconvenience.”
“You’re the client,” Cal says, and his tone doesn’t soften, but it’s not cold either. “That means you're a priority.”
Rowan blinks like she didn’t expect that. Then she nods once. “Okay. I can work with priority.”
Cal’s gaze returns to me. “Bridge is ready. Tech is standing by.”
“Good.” I gesture with my head. “Let’s talk.”
We move through the space toward the stairs leading up to the loft. Rowan stays close without being told twice. Her bravado is still there, but it’s quieter now, like she’s conserving it.
Halfway up the stairs, my phone buzzes. I glance down.
Colt: Is she pretty?
Jace: I bet Sin falls in love with this one.
I exhale through my nose, irritation and amusement mixing in my chest.
Rowan glances over. “Your fan club?”
“My brothers.”
“They’re supportive.”
“They’re idiots.”
I type back with one hand while we climb.
Me: Focus on Dad.
A second later, another message pops up, this time from Nash.
Nash: Trail went cold at the mining camp. But we pulled something. Old ledger. A name tied to a shell company we’ve seen before. We’re sending details. Watch your six, Sin.
My jaw tightens. Dad again. Always Dad. The ghost that won’t stay buried.
I thumb a response.
Me: Copy. Keep me posted.
Rowan’s watching me now, her eyes sharp with curiosity she’s trying to pretend isn’t there. “What is it?” she asks.
“Family stuff,” I say.
“Is that code for ‘someone is trying to kill your family too’?”
I look at her. She’s attempting humor, but her voice is careful. I don’t lie. Not to myself, and not to her. “It’s complicated,” I say.
Her mouth presses into a line. “That’s a yes.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“Right,” she says, too light. “Because apparently my problems weren’t enough for the universe.”
We reach the top. Cal opens the door to The Bridge and steps aside so Rowan can enter first.
Inside, the loft is all glass walls and screens. An ops table sits in the middle with maps, tablets, and a projection setup. A couch and small kitchenette occupy the corner. Two techs sit at a workstation, headsets on, monitors filled with code and signal graphs.
One looks up as we enter. “Cal.”
Cal nods. “This is Rowan. We’re gonna look at her phone and anything touching it.”
The tech swivels his chair. “We can do a full forensic pass. Clones, logs, installed profiles, SIM behavior, carrier pings. If there’s spyware or a spoofed tower tag, we’ll find it.”
Rowan’s eyes widen slightly. “That sounds… intimate.”
“It is,” I tell her. “That’s the point.”
She shifts her tote strap higher. “Okay. Violations of privacy are very sexy when they’re saving my life.”
Cal gestures to the ops table. “Sit. Both of you.”
Rowan slides onto the stool and crosses her legs, posture composed. She’s putting on a show. She thinks if she looks calm enough, her body will follow.
I sit beside her, close enough that if she bolts, I can stop her without making a scene.
Cal stands across from us, hands braced on the table. “Start from the top.”
I pull Rowan’s phone from my pocket. “Unknown number texted her while we were en route. Threat implied they can track her even with protection.”
I slide the phone across the table to the tech. “This is it. It went into a faraday pouch right after the message. No further interaction.”
The tech nods and plugs it into a device that looks like it could either save a life or ruin a marriage.
Cal’s gaze stays on me. “Timeline.”
“Two vehicle incidents in three weeks. Last night was deliberate contact on the highway. Door lock shows tool marks. Police wrote it off as random.”
Rowan lifts her brows. “They also called it ‘unfortunate.’ Which felt like a personal critique.”
Cal’s eyes flick to her. “It was sloppy work. Someone wanted you scared more than dead.”
Rowan’s humor falters. “Great. So I’m being emotionally terrorized.”
“Not great,” I correct.
Her gaze slides to me, and she tries to make a joke, but it lands softer. “I hate it when men can’t commit.”
I should ignore that. I don’t. I take the bait. “You’d rather they commit to murder?” I ask.
She huffs a laugh. “When you say it like that, it feels unreasonable.”
Cal watches us for half a second, then returns to business like he’s seen this dynamic a hundred times and already knows where it ends. “Your story,” he says to Rowan. “Tell me what you uncovered. The details matter.”
Rowan sits straighter. This is her comfort zone.
Facts. Threads. Patterns. She speaks quickly, but clearly, explaining the shell nonprofits, the money trail, the fundraiser, the questions she asked, and the way one man’s smile went cold when she mentioned a specific contract number. Cal listens without interrupting.
I watch her while she talks.
Long brown hair, pulled back loosely while a few strands escape near her cheek. Brown eyes that hold fire even when fear tries to smother it. A mouth made for smart remarks, but also honesty when it counts.
Pretty isn’t even the right word.
Pretty is a painting.
Rowan’s a storm.
My phone buzzes again.
Banks: New intel. Ledger ties to a consultancy out of D.C. Name on the paperwork: A. Shaw. Ring any bells?
My pulse ticks once, hard.
Alden Shaw. Dad’s old handler. Or the man who used to be, depending on which version of the story is true.
I lock my face down and type back.
Me: It does. Dad’s handler. Keep digging. Carefully.
Rowan finishes her explanation, hands clasped tightly now on the edge of the table. She’s back to stillness, but I notice the shallow breath, the way her thumb rubs the side of her finger like she’s sanding off nerves.
Cal nods slowly. “You were right to push. You just did it without a shield.”
Rowan glances at me like she hates that word in this context.
“I’m not a shield,” I say, because if I say it out loud, maybe she’ll believe it. “I’m the guy standing between you and whoever thinks you’re disposable.”
Her throat moves when she swallows. “Comforting.”
“Accurate.”
One of the techs looks up. “Cal, we’ve got something.”
Cal turns. “Talk.”
The tech points at the screen. “Her phone shows a profile installed that shouldn’t be there. Not a normal app. It’s a management profile. Remote access capability, hidden processes. Whoever put it there wanted to monitor her without leaving obvious footprints.”
Rowan’s face drains a shade. “That’s… on my phone?”
I lean in. “How’d it get there?”
Tech shakes his head. “Could be a malicious link. Could be physical access. Could be someone got her Apple ID credentials and pushed it. We’ll know more once we pull the logs and compare timestamps to her location history.”
Rowan’s voice goes quieter. “So they’ve been… watching me?”
“Yes,” Cal says simply. “Which means we adjust. New phone. New number. New accounts. Anything tied to you gets treated like it’s burned.”
Rowan’s bravado tries to rise. “I can’t just disappear. I have sources. I have people who depend on me.”
Cal’s gaze stays steady. “You can, and you will, until we know who’s in your circle and how deep this goes.”
Rowan’s eyes flash. “That’s not—”
I place my hand lightly on the table near hers, not touching, but close. She notices. Her fingers twitch toward mine, then stop.
She exhales, sharp. “Fine.”
Cal looks at me. “We’ll also run a sweep on your vehicle, your comms, your routine. If they tagged your phone, they might have tried to tag you the second you got close.”
“They did,” I say. “The text came in while we were moving.”
Cal nods once. “Then we assume active surveillance. We go dark tonight. We move her to the safe house before sundown.”
Rowan’s gaze snaps up. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” Cal says.
Rowan opens her mouth, and I can see it, the fear she’s been swallowing trying to claw its way out. She’s brave, but brave doesn’t mean unshaken.
I tilt my head toward her. “You can do tonight.”
She stares at me for a beat, and there’s something raw behind her eyes. Not helplessness. Not weakness. Just the weight of realizing she can’t outtalk this. “Okay,” she says, voice softer. “I can do tonight.”
Cal’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone shifts a fraction. “Good. Because you’re not doing it alone.”
The tech keeps working, screens filling with data. A digital autopsy.
Rowan sits still, shoulders held tight.
I watch her and think about my brothers asking if she’s pretty.
They have no idea. Pretty isn’t the danger here.
The danger is that I’m drawn to her. That her fear makes something protective snap into place in my chest. That her humor makes me want to lean closer instead of stepping back.
This was supposed to be simple. Keep her breathing.
Get paid. Leave. But sitting in The Bridge with her beside me, I can feel the shift.
The moment something stops being an assignment and starts becoming personal.
My phone buzzes again.
Nash: We’re moving on a new lead at first light. If Shaw is involved, Dad’s trail just got real. Stay sharp, Sin.
I glance at Rowan. She’s staring at the tech screens like she can will the truth out of the data faster. And I realize I’m going to have to juggle two fires at once.
My father’s ghost.
And the living woman beside me who is trying not to let fear show on her face.
Cal’s voice cuts in. “Sin. Walk with me.”
I stand. Rowan looks up immediately, and the flash of worry is quick, but there.
I keep my tone even. “I’ll be right outside. Stay here. Don’t wander.”
She gives me a look. “Yes, Dad.”
“Good girl,” slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen. Mine narrow, because that was a mistake. Cal’s mouth twitches like he’s amused, but he keeps walking.
Rowan’s voice follows me, light and dangerous. “Did you just—”
I keep moving. Because if I stay, I’ll do something stupid like smile. And I do not do stupid. Not when there’s danger involved.