He was walking back toward the dock when he saw her standing at the boardwalk railing.
Margot. Phone pressed to her ear, shoulders tight. The wind was pulling strands of hair across her face, but she didn’t push them away. She wasn’t talking. Just listening. Her free hand was curled into a fist against her thigh.
Then she pulled the phone away, stared at the screen, and shoved it into her back pocket. She gripped the railing with both hands and stood there, face tilted toward the water.
He knew that posture. The one where you’re holding yourself together by holding on to something solid.
He almost kept on walking.
Instead, he stopped ten feet away and leaned against the railing, facing the marina. Gave her space without leaving her alone. The boardwalk creaked under his weight, and she shifted, just enough to notice him. He expected her to look annoyed, or guarded, or polite. She simply looked tired.
“Wind’s shifting.” He checked the cleats. “Coming out of the northeast. Might get some chop in the harbor by this afternoon.”
Whatever she’d just heard on that phone was still sitting close to the surface, but her voice came out steady. “Is that going to affect the expo setup on the pier?”
“Nothing that can’t be tied down.”
She almost smiled. “That’s my philosophy on most things.”
“Seems to be working.”
She looked at him like she was deciding whether that was a compliment or a diagnosis. The wind caught her hair again, and this time she pushed it back. Her fingers still trembled. He noticed. He wished he hadn’t.
“You’ve got an unregistered boat in Slip Fourteen.” He didn’t look up from the cleats. Talking about boats was safer than whatever else was happening. “No name, no numbers. Came in through the south channel three days ago. Might want to mention it to your security team.”
The almost-smile disappeared. “How unregistered?”
“Completely.”
She pulled out her clipboard and wrote something down. Fast, hard strokes. He could hear the pen from six feet away.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She looked up from the clipboard. Her eyes were dark brown, which he hadn’t noticed before, or maybe he had and hadn’t let himself register it. She held his gaze, direct and unguarded for just a moment, before the professional mask clicked back into place.
He nodded and pushed off the railing. Halfway down the boardwalk, he realized he’d told her about the boat before he’d told security. He’d come to the boardwalk to cut through to the dock, and instead he’d stopped because she looked like she needed someone to stand next to.
He wasn’t sure what to do with that. He hadn’t stood next to anyone in five years.
The compass pressed against his thigh with every step, heavy and familiar. For years it had been nothing more than weight. Now it pointed somewhere.
Chapter seven
Toward the Problem
Margot’sclipboardhadaweather contingency plan. But it did not have a contingency plan for the forecast being wrong.
She’d checked it three times that morning. Scattered showers. Possible in the late afternoon.
The storm came in from the northeast at twelve forty-three, exactly forty minutes into Tessa’s promo shoot on the pier.
“We’re good,” Tessa had said at noon, shielding her eyes and squinting at the horizon. “That’s nothing.”
The “nothing” was currently a wall of gray moving across the sound at a speed that eliminated discussion.
“Wrap the camera equipment,” Margot said into her headset. “Now. Everything under the pavilion’s awning. Vendors on the pier, start moving merchandise. Jimmy, I need someone on the banner ropes on the west end.”
Tessa was still filming.
