A Father’s Obsession
Chapter Three
A Father’s Obsession
SADIE
The storm eases shortly after lunch.
The dark clouds remain low and ugly, and the water is rough, but the heavy downpour has softened to a steady drizzle. I no longer feel assaulted by rain when I step outside.
I’ll take the improvement.
My shoulders ache from hauling pots, and my hands still smell like bait. The gloves keep the worst of the stench off my skin, but they don’t completely prevent it. Fish oil has a way of sticking to skin, and it’ll be several hours and at least six more handwashes before it’s entirely gone.
I’ll smell fresh just in time to haul tomorrow’s pots.
I duck into the wheelhouse and shut the door behind me. Warm air hits my face immediately. So does the scent of diesel and stale coffee. Dad carries the smell of coffee with him wherever he goes. I suspect it seeps from his pores.
He glances up from the sonar console, his eyes wide in the way that tells me he has exciting news. I hope so, at least. After this morning’s downpour, I could use something positive.
I push my hood off my head and unzip my windbreaker.
“What is it?” I ask.
Dad looks me up and down, his nostrils flaring as I step closer. “You smell like bait.”
“Thank you.” I drop into the chair beside him. “Thrilled to hear it.”
I always smell like bait. Occupational hazard of the job.
The sonar screen glows, pulsating softly with shifting lines and shapes. Dad’s the navigational expert, but I know my way around a sonar console. I glance up at him, noting the way he’s staring at the screen like it’s the most interesting thing on Earth.
Knowing him, it probably is.
“You see that?” he asks, jerking his chin forward.
I squint at the screen. “See what?”
“That.”
He taps the display. Right in the center of the screen, a cluster of shapes drifts slowly across the sonar map. They’re slightly irregular—a bit bigger than fish usually are and too dense to be a random school. Still. It’s nothing concerning.
“Dad…” I start. “Where are you going with this?”
“Look closer.”
“I am.”
“And?”
I give him a sideways glance but don’t answer. I’m not playing into his fantasies. Dad is always seeing things that aren’t there, and I’m on this boat to work…not chase fairy tales.
He sighs, his chest heaving with impatience. He acts as if I’ve personally offended him, but I don’t feel bad about it. We have a tight schedule this run, and the storm has set us behind. There isn’t time to veer off course and investigate make-believe.
Dad leans closer to the screen. Any closer and his nose will brush against it.
“I’ve been tracking something strange for weeks,” he says.
Weeks? Plural? Dad lives for the strange and the abnormal, especially when it comes to the ocean. His interest usually vanishes after a few days, though.
“What kind of strange?” I ask.
“Migration anomalies.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, debating whether or not I should engage with his theories. My interest is piqued, but I’d hate to encourage him. We really do need to stay on schedule.
“Dad…”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” I say, gesturing to the screen. “You’ve been chasing weird ocean patterns since I was eight. Probably even before then.”
Dad taps the screen again. He’s planning to ignore me.
“These readings shouldn’t be happening here,” he argues.
I glance at the display, watching the shapes travel slowly across the sonar grid. There aren’t many surprises to be found in this part of the ocean, and we’ve traversed this route hundreds of times. The shapes are clearly fish. There’s no other option.
“Looks like a school to me,” I say.
“They’re too large.”
“Big fish, then. Whales, maybe?”
Dad shakes his head. “Too organized.”
I blow out a breath. “Organized whales, then.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I fear I already know where this is going.
Dad continues. “Must be Mer.”
There it is.
His eyes light up the way they always do when he thinks he’s onto something. I’m not sure what to say about it. Once his mind is set on Mer, there’s no changing it. I’ve tried. Several times.
With no success.
“Look,” Dad urges, his fingernail clinking against the screen. “Look closely.”
The shapes drift slowly across the display, then arc right. I’m willing to admit it’s a little abnormal, but nothing of major concern.
“Dad,” I say. “That’s fish.”
“It’s not fish.”
“It’s definitely fish.”
Dad folds his arms. “I know the ocean, Sadie. Trust me.”
A loud, metallic clang echoes from the deck before I can argue further, and Tipper’s voice quickly follows.
“Trap’s up!”
Dad glances toward the window, distracted. I’m relieved to have an excuse to leave this conversation, and I don’t hesitate to zip up my jacket and pull the hood back over my head.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go help Tipper.”
Dad and I step out onto the deck together, our boots squeaking against the still-wet steel. Tipper stands at the rail, hauling a pot up through the pulley system. His cheeks turn red from the strain, and I rush forward to help.
The trap breaks the surface of the water, and it’s immediately clear that something is wrong.
The pot is full, a handful of crabs fighting against the cage in search of freedom, but it’s not the only thing we’ve caught. Plastic spills through the wire cage as Tipper drags it onto the deck.
Bottles. Bags. Food wrappers. Fishing line.
A tangled mess of human garbage trails across the deck.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
Tipper dumps the trap, letting the trash spill out. He’s visibly irritated, but I know him well enough to know it isn’t about the poor inventory. He hates the plastic. Hates how it pollutes the ocean and destroys fragile ecosystems. We all do.
Dad meets my gaze. “If they exist,” he whispers, “they deserve better.”
Back to merpeople, I see. I refuse to acknowledge his statement.
He gestures toward the pile of plastic. “This is what we do to the ocean.”
My gaze lingers on the trash tangled in the wire cage. He’s defending something that doesn’t exist, and this is a conversation I’m tired of having.
“Dad,” I say. My voice is firm. “Mermaids aren’t real.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
He studies the trap for another minute before stepping back, his gaze drifting toward the wheelhouse. He’s thinking about the sonar. I’m certain of it.
“Either way,” he says, “something unknown to man is moving through these waters.”
Tipper begins picking through the trash, separating plastic from crab.
“And you think it’s Mer?” he asks.
He knows Dad well. Too well. He also enjoys feeding into Dad’s delusions, finding them entertaining. I wish he’d stop.
Dad perks up at Tipper’s interest. “I think it’s worth finding out.”
This is where I bow out. Let them fantasize and daydream all they want, but I’m not going to stick around for it.
I head back toward the cabin.
“I’m getting dry before dinner,” I shout over my shoulder. “We have a tight schedule. Stick to it.”
The wheelhouse is still empty when I sneak back inside fifteen minutes later, my hair freshly washed and my hands pleasantly fish-free. A glance out the window confirms that Dad is still helping Tipper deal with the trash-filled trap.
The sonar screen glows softly, practically calling me over. I hesitate, not wanting to get sucked into Dad’s delusions, before inching closer. The cluster of shapes Dad pointed out earlier is still drifting across the screen. Slow and deliberate, not scattered like fish usually are.
I lean closer to the console.
“Fish,” I mutter. “Must be.”
But the movement nags at me. Fish schools scatter and shift, but these shapes stay tight and steady. They’re moving with purpose.
A chill crawls up the back of my spine as I step away from the screen. It’s definitely fish.
I shake my head and leave the room, removing myself before I get invested. The hallway is narrow enough that two people can’t pass without bumping into one another, which is exactly what happens as I round the corner and slam into Kyros.
I bounce off his chest as if I’ve walked into a wall.
I gasp. “Whoa—”
His hands close around my arms to steady me, his grip firm even through my jacket. He pulls me back upright without a second thought, steadying me, then releases me and steps back.
I grimace. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Kyros nods, the corner of his lip twitching upward. He doesn’t say anything as he peers down his nose at me, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking. This is the second time he’s caught me today. He must think I’m clumsy—ill-equipped for this type of work.
I clear my throat. “Well…” I gesture vaguely toward the deck. I assume that’s where he was heading. “Try not to get too wet out there.”
Kyros raises an eyebrow. “Sound advice.”
I shut my eyes, count to three, then open them back up. Kyros clearly isn’t a fan of me, I suspect because of my merman comments last night. If I’d known he was such a prude, I wouldn’t have made them.
Tipper would’ve found my questions hilarious.
“I wanted to apologize,” I force myself to say. “About yesterday.”
Kyros tilts his head.
“My comments. About Mer dick. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
Kyros studies me for a minute, still not speaking. I’m finding I hate the way he looks at me, almost sneering, like I’m beneath him. He still doesn’t say anything as he turns sideways, then steps past me toward the door leading to the deck.
I glare at his back. What is this man’s problem? I’m trying to be kind and welcoming, and he’s been nothing but a complete dick to me.
“Fuck you.”
Kyros stills, his spine straightening. I count the seconds, my chest heaving. I can’t remember the last time I was this angry, my blood boiling beneath my skin.
One.
Two.
Three seconds pass before Kyros shoves open the door leading to the deck and steps outside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The sudden silence is deafening.
I blow out a breath.
Behind me, the sonar screen continues to glow. I ignore it as I head into the galley.
I make it less than five minutes before guilt has eaten me alive. I shouldn’t have said that.
Dad is still outside helping Tipper, their voices drifting faintly through the walls. I pour myself a heaping mug of lukewarm coffee and head outside.
Cold air smacks me in the face as I push open the door, blowing my hair off my shoulders. The storm has weakened, but the ocean is still angry. Gray swells roll beneath the boat, lifting us up before dropping us back down.
I spot Kyros near the stern.
Alone.
Of course.
I should apologize to him. Again. He’s going to ignore me, but I’m okay with being the bigger person. Unlike Kyros, I was raised with manners.
I start toward him when something white catches my eye. A bird. It sits in Kyros’s lap, soaked and shivering from the rain. Its wing is twisted awkwardly against its body and fishing line is wrapped around one leg, cutting deep into its flesh. Blood stains the feathers pink.
Kyros doesn’t notice me inching closer.
His large hands move with surprising gentleness as he works a small knife beneath the fishing line. The bird snaps at him, but he doesn’t react.
“You’re going to lose a finger,” I say.
His shoulders tense. “I’ll survive.”
The bird pecks him again, this time hard enough to draw blood. Kyros doesn’t make a single sound as he cuts the final strand of line, and he scoots back as the bird immediately tries to launch itself into the air.
It fails.
Kyros cocks his head, staring at the awkwardly hanging wing.
I frown. “You should put it out of its misery.”
“Its wing isn’t broken.”
“Sure looks it to me.”
Kyros shoots me a look, his eyebrows drawn together. He’s annoyed with me.
The bird continues to flap its wings, trying to leave. I press my lips together when it gains some air, finally taking flight. It circles the boat once, tentative and slow, before disappearing into the gray sky.
Well. I’ll be damned.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” I admit. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
Kyros hums.
He offers nothing more.
I stare at the side of his head. Seriously?
“I take my apology back,” I spit out. “And consider it doubled. Fuck you twice.”
My movements are stiff as I spin around, ready to storm away. I’m stopped by the sound of laughter, loud and abrupt. It erupts from Kyros in one quick burst, and it sounds oddly light. He finds my anger funny.
That only makes me angrier.
I hold my chin high as I walk away, heading toward Dad and Tipper. I give up. We’re stuck with Kyros through this run, but we’ll be cutting him loose once we return to land. He’s not a good fit.