Evan shrugged.
It wasn’t the whole truth. But it was enough truth. For now.
The detective looked back at the documents. “I’ll pull the LLC records.”
Good.
“I’ll verify the rental.”
Better.
“I’ll revisit the keycard timeline.”
Best.
Then he looked up. “If you’re wrong, you’re not helping her.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You sound very certain for a man who fixes boats.”
Evan nodded. “Boats are honest.”
Harker waited.
“They break where they’re weak.”
The detective took a sip of coffee. “People break where they’re lying.”
For the first time all evening, Harker smiled. Small. Reluctant. But real. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Evan stood. “Pull the records.”
“I said I would.”
“You’ll see where the breaks are.”
He left before the detective could answer.
The harbor was dark when he got back. The resort lights glowed above the trees. Christmas lights blinked red and green against the night. The dock shed smelled like rope and salt and old coffee.
Home.
He pinned the rental agreement beside the invoice. Then stepped back. Keycard. Gate code. Boat rental. Shell company. Handwriting. Every thread pointed in the same direction now.
Caleb Henson.
For the first time since the blackout, Evan felt certain they were close. Not hopeful. Certain.
His phone buzzed. A weather alert. Not Margot.
He laughed at himself. Then he looked at her text again anyway.
Tomorrow. Dawn. Dock shed.
He could still see her sitting on the bookstore bench with a paperback in one hand and fries in the other. Still hear her asking what happened after the expo. Still hear himself failing to answer.
He’d spent five years avoiding questions that started with what comes next. Five years fixing docks. Fixing boats. Fixing anything that could be repaired with tools and patience.
