12. Sophie
SOPHIE
For a second, none of us breathe.
June’s eyes cut to me, wide and disbelieving. Meredith’s jaw goes rigid, lips pressed flat.
The overhead bulb above our booth casts Mark in shadow. His coat is dry, but a smattering of rain clings to his shoes. He doesn’t shake off the water. He’s here to make an entrance, and he does, as always.
No one answers his greeting, so I seize the initiative.
“Sit,” I say and snag a chair from a nearby table with my foot to drag it to the edge of our already-cramped booth. “Might as well hear the inside scoop straight from the source, right?”
Mark’s eyebrows hike, but the shift is more pleased than surprised.
Meredith’s mouth drops open for half a second—a rare, genuine lapse—before she collects herself, arms folding across her chest like a fortress.
June’s face is a pure storm cloud, but whatever protest she works up gets swallowed in the static.
I swear, these two want answers but refuse to ask the person who might have them.
They’re so stubborn.
Mark slides in, close enough that our knees brush under the table. His aftershave threads through the air. It’s expensive and familiar in the worst way. I expected arrogance, but what I get is a man perfectly at ease, owning every inch of the booth like it’s his office back in Boston.
We’re huddled around the table meant for two, knees knocking, elbows perilously close to the ketchup bottle. Even the air seems to thin out, constricted by whatever Mark dragged in with him.
He puts both hands on the table, fingers steepled in that lawyerly way, and glances at Meredith first. “You always pick the darkest corner for these meetings.” His voice is all silk and challenge. “It’s like some weird noir film but without the cameras.”
She shoots him a look that could probably get a man disbarred. “It’s closed hours. Not cocktail hour. Besides, the only noir thing about this scene is you.”
“Well, then.” He raps the tabletop once softly. “Let’s make it quick.”
June doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Cut to the chase. Have you heard anything about Ashton’s case? Or are you still just trailing us for sport?”
Mark doesn’t take her bait. Instead, he looks at me, reading the room—clearly waiting to see who’s actually running the show tonight.
That would be me, at least for now.
I lean forward, ignoring the way my knee knocks into his.
“I’ll spell it out. Ashton’s off the hook, but we all know the feds didn’t just forgive and forget.
If there’s an investigation, it shifted.
Meaning someone else is carrying the bag.
You have better contacts than any of us. Any ideas who it could be?”
He hesitates for a moment, giving each of us a once-over.
It’s strategic—he wants to see how badly we need the answer.
It makes me want to kick him under the table, but I decide to play his game for a minute.
If he doesn’t come off it soon, he’ll get a shoe to the shin to encourage him to play by our rules.
Meredith’s jaw locks, her glare unblinking. June starts bouncing her foot under the table, the motion making the whole booth quiver.
Mark’s smile is minute—a micro-expression, gone as soon as it flares. “You have an interesting theory, I’ll give you that. But the feds don’t exactly send out press releases for this kind of thing. All I’ve officially seen is an updated docket and a closed hearing. Beyond that? Just rumors.”
“Rumors are fine,” I prod. “We’ll take what we can get.”
He drums his fingers on his thigh, buying time. He acts like we’re paying him by the hour, when in reality, we aren’t on his clock at all. “The prevailing buzz, if you believe my sources, is that someone confessed. Not Ashton. Someone else involved—likely on the periphery.”
June’s head jerks up. “Like a gallery employee? Or another artist?”
“Could be.” His eyes narrow as he half-heartedly shrugs. “But if you want my guess, it’s someone nobody will miss. Low-profile. Disposable. The feds like neat bows, and judges don’t want their time wasted on complicated sob stories.”
Meredith can’t help herself. “You haven’t heard an actual name?”
Mark glances over, and for a split second, the ice between them almost cracks.
He looks like he wants to say something softer—something meant for her alone—but then he pivots back to the room.
“Not yet. There’s an internal memo floating around, but it hasn’t hit the court record. I can lean on people, if you want.”
I can tell June is ready to leap across the booth. Instead, she clamps her mouth shut, holding onto her dignity by the thinnest thread.
“Would you do that?” I ask, carefully neutral.
Mark nods. It’s slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing the favor against the future. “If you want specifics, I’ll get them. I have a few friends who owe me, and most people on the island don’t have the appetite for this sort of drama. I presume you’d prefer discretion.”
Meredith finally speaks, her words clipped enough to bite. “What we’d prefer is not to have former family members showing up unannounced, especially when there’s already enough wreckage to clean up.”
Mark absorbs the dig, but his smirk fades. “Meredith, I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to keep you above water. All of you.” His gaze flicks to me, then back to her. “But if you’d rather I bow out?—”
“No,” I cut in before anyone else could sabotage the lead. “We need to know. There’s too much weirdness. It’s not just Ashton’s name at play—if the feds fumbled the case, someone on the island could be in the crosshairs by morning.”
Even June, arms folded and brow furrowed, lets that logic stand.
Mark settles, clearly enjoying the discomfort; he’s not even hiding it. The only thing louder than the rain is the pulse in my ears and his smug disposition.
June speaks up, and there’s a tremor in it, but it sounds a lot like hope—against her will. “If you get a name, you let us know right away. We need to know anything you find out, okay? No secrets. No side deals. Not this time.”
He actually inclines his head. “Scout’s honor.”
That earns a snort from Meredith, who turns her gaze from him to the window. Her profile is like granite—only the set of her mouth betrays the fatigue. The rain catches the streetlamp outside and water beads on the glass in hundreds of trembling lines.
Mark’s hand, cold and perfectly manicured, slides a napkin toward himself like he’s prepping a deposition. “Is there anything else I should be aware of? Any enemies you think might be angling for a payday or a spotlight?”
He’s opening the floor. Classic.
I glance at June, who shakes her head, eyes down.
But Meredith pipes up, voice soft and lethal. “We have a list as long as the harbor. But for now, just focus on the case. Please.”
The word please drops like a lead weight.
Mark absorbs it, steeples his fingers again, and nods. “Understood.”
There’s nowhere for the conversation to go, but none of us wants to move first.
Outside, the lamps along the street blur into puddles of yellow and blue, the street an ink wash of rain.
Inside, our four shadows hang on the walls, overgrown and misshapen by the low light.
I think about the families that have been built and broken in this booth—how many times we’ve leaned in, hungry for answers, only to find more questions.
Tonight isn’t any different.
The silence swells, too heavy for words.
Mark is the one to break it. “You know, if Ashton did orchestrate this—if he cut a deal or engineered an escape—it might not be obvious for weeks. The feds love a good paper trail, but they rarely put details out in the open. If you want a head start, you need to be ready for whoever gets flushed into the open next.”
He’s speaking to everyone, but his eyes are locked on Meredith. Like every word is a challenge. Or maybe a warning.
She doesn’t look away. “We’re always ready.”
I almost laugh at that, but the sound dies on my tongue. We’re not ready, not even close.
But we’ll fake it, like we always do.
June drags her fingers along the plastic edge of the sugar packet caddy, her mind clearly a thousand miles away. “Why do you think Ashton hasn’t said anything? He could gloat, or he could spin it. Instead, he just disappeared.”
Mark considers, eyes narrowing. “Could be optics. Could be guilt. Or maybe he’s smart enough to realize silence is a better defense than anything his so-called legal team could muster.
” He glances at me, like he expects agreement.
“Like it or not, there is wisdom in his gameplay. He didn’t get where he is by not thinking strategically… several moves ahead.”
I tilt my chin, forcing a smile. “Or maybe he knows we’re already on the case.”
For the first time, Mark grins—genuine, quick, gone before you can pin it down. “I like that. Very Nancy Drew.”
Oddly, I don’t hate the comparison.
Meredith’s knee bumps mine under the table. It’s deliberate, grounding, like she’s letting me know she sees what I’m doing. That she approves, or at least she won’t scold me for being the one to keep us moving.
Mark’s voice goes soft. “I’ll reach out to my contacts in the city. If there’s a name—or even a whiff of it—I’ll find it first. Just promise me you won’t try to handle this alone. Not again.” This time, his plea is genuine. Maybe even desperate.
Meredith’s reply is steely but not unkind. “We never did.”
He nods, accepting the loss, but I catch the relief in his posture. Maybe he really is rooting for us. Or maybe he just needs to be the first one with an answer. Either way, it works for me.
June sighs. “If you’re going to be involved, you might as well make yourself useful.” She glances at him, eyes hollow. “Just keep us updated. Please.” The please is softer this time.
Mark pushes back from the table—not enough to actually leave, but enough to let space return to the booth. “You have my word.” The way he says it, you almost want to believe him.
And I do. For a second.
The restaurant sways with the wind. Another gust rattles the windows, and somewhere out back, the dumpster lid slams shut in the dark. The Shack is the only place on the block still lit. Our little conspiracy, huddled behind glass, waiting for someone else’s fate to determine our own.
Mark stands, sliding out with care. He doesn’t rush.
He never does. He shrugs on his coat and waits a beat, like he wants to say goodnight but can’t quite do it.
Instead, he gives us a parting glance—assessing, approving, oddly gentle.
“Try to get some rest. This will be messy, but you’ve survived worse. ”
He’s gone before anyone thinks to reply. The echo of the bell lingers at the threshold, then vanishes into the storm.
For a long time, none of us moves.
Meredith rakes both hands through her hair, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath for months. “Well, that was?—”
“Horrible,” June says without inflection.
I tap the edge of the table. “But productive.”
Outside, the night is pure wet velvet, muffling the world.
My sisters regroup—silent in their disappointment but united. We watch the rain race down the glass, our reflections warped and strange.
I don’t know who’s next in the feds’ crosshairs. I don’t know if Mark will turn up anything better than a rumor. But I do know this…whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.