She turned toward him. “The gala happens.”
“The gala happens.”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night.”
“And we end this.”
His gaze held hers. Steady. Certain. The same look he’d given her on the beach. The one that said I’m here. The one that said whatever comes next, we face it together.
Margot reached for his hand. Not the stairwell grip. Not the dock handshake. She simply took it.
The way you take something you’ve stopped pretending you don’t want. And held on.
Tomorrow. The gala, the confrontation, and the truth.
Tomorrow, one way or another, Caleb Henson would run out of places to hide.
The ocean rolled against the shore below.
The lights glowed.
Evan’s hand remained wrapped around hers.
And for the first time in days, tomorrow felt less like something to survive and more like something to meet head-on.
Chapter thirty-seven
The Keel
Thedockwaswrong.
Evan noticed things on water. Not by sight. By feel. A cleat that answered a rope with the wrong sound. A piling that creaked a beat out of rhythm. The faint diesel smell of a boat that didn’t belong in the marina.
He walked the length of Dock Three as dusk settled across the harbor. The sky had gone from gold to violet. Marina lights doubled in the water. Christmas decorations glowed along the boardwalk, their colors wavering with the tide.
Most people would have called it beautiful.
He was busy trying to figure out what was bothering him.
The gala postponement had turned the whole resort upside down. Staff rebuilding schedules. Vendors salvaging decorations. Harker chasing leads. And somewhere out there, Caleb Henson was still holding a hundred and seventy thousand dollars in stolen glass.
The dock wasn’t the problem. His mind was.
One moment his hand was on a mooring line. The next, Lauren was calling his name from dark water. Close enough to hear. Too far to reach.
His fingers tightened around the rope. The memory crashed over him. Cold water. Broken lights. The impossible silence that had followed the screaming.
Then it was gone.
The harbor came back. July. Warm air. Gentle waves. Not the parade. Not that night. Just Evan, standing on a dock, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Bad evening?” Ray’s voice carried from behind him.
Evan glanced over his shoulder. The ship captain lowered himself onto a bench near the fuel station and held up a thermos. “Flashback.”
Ray nodded once. No surprise. No awkward sympathy. Just acknowledgment. He’d been there the night of the accident, running charters, helping pull people from the water. Some experiences didn’t require explanation.
