In the back corner, holding court at the largest booth, are the Hollister brothers.
Finn is there, looking relaxed for once, nursing a dark stout. He has Mags tucked into his side, looking happy and tired from a long day.
Rhys is, predictably, organizing the coasters on the table into a geometric pattern while checking his watch.
And Reid … well, Reid is standing on the bench seat. He rode over from Lantern Bay, probably smelling like the lighthouse he lives in, salt spray and ozone, and he's currently reenacting our rescue for an audience of captivated tourists at the next table.
"So there I was," Reid shouts, using a pretzel rod as a prop sword. "Navigating the treacherous currents! Icebergs the size of apartment buildings! And Rhys says to me, 'Slow down!' and I said, 'Rhys, heroes don't slow down! Heroes punch the throttle!'"
"The waves were two feet," Rhys corrects loudly, not looking up from his coaster arrangement. "And you were screaming."
"I was screaming a war cry!" Reid counters, indignant. He spots us walking in and his face splits into a grin. "And there they are! The survivors of Misty Meadows! The legends! Nash, tell these people about the waves. Were they not mountainous? Did they not froth like a rabid beast?"
"They were … spirited," I say diplomatically, sliding into the booth next to Finn.
Aris laughs and takes the seat next to me, immediately stealing one of Reid's nachos.
"Spirited!" Reid points the pretzel at Rhys. "See? Validated. Nash is a man of the earth, he knows the truth."
Reid keeps holding court, but I'm watching Aris laugh with her whole body, and whatever story he's selling, the real one belongs to her.
"Sit down, Reid," Finn says, kicking his brother's leg under the table. "You're scaring the locals."
Reid sits down, looking unbothered. He grabs his beer and raises it high. "To Nash and Aris," he announces, and the table choruses it back.
We drink. The beer is cold, the company is loud, and for the first time in ten years, I don't feel the urge to check the exits.
May Sweeney told me once thatscientists migrate. Just like the caribou, she said. They come for the season, take what they need, and follow the funding south. She wasn't wrong, as a general rule.
She was just wrong about this one.
"So," Reid says, slapping his beer down hard enough that Rhys flinches and re-aligns the coaster underneath it. "I submitted the P-404 Incident Report to the insurance agency a couple days back, all about the damage to the Kingfisher's hull. Filled it out myself. And I was thorough—I photocopied the pages out of Rhys's logbook. Wind speeds, wave heights, everything."
"You what?" Rhys sets his glass down with surgical care, the way a man does when the alternative is throwing it. He's still in his green apron from closing up the store. "Those are my logs. My name is on those pages.
"You told the insurance company we took your charter boat into a Force 10 gale to fight wolves?" His eyes go wide with horror behind his glasses. "Reid. Reid. You do not write that down. You do not hand them a confession. You say it was a rogue wave. You say it was an iceberg. You round."
"I don't lie on federal forms, Rhys," Reid says, puffing out his chest. "I'm a captain. Captains tell the truth. We embellish, sure, but only in person, never on paper. The truth is deductible."
"The truth is expensive," Finn mutters into his beer.
"It's fine," Reid insists, waving a dismissive hand. "I have a pristine record. They'll cut the check, I'll fix the hull platingmyself, and the Kingfisher will be ready for the derby next week."
"I don't think so," a voice says from behind us.
The voice is cool, crisp, and carries a distinct lack of warmth.
I turn. Standing at the end of our booth is a woman who looks entirely out of place in Yeti's Tavern. She's wearing a tailored black wool coat buttoned to the throat and heels that look like weapons. Her hair is pulled back in a severe, glossy knot, and she's holding a tablet like a shield.
She looks at Reid. "Reid Hollister?"
"That's me," Reid says, flashing the easy grin of a man who has never been in serious trouble in his life. "Can I help you? If you're looking for a lighthouse tour, we're closed until?—"
"I'm not a tourist," she cuts in. She taps the screen of her tablet. "I'm Mercy Sterling. Senior Fraud Investigator for Pacific Maritime Mutual."
Rhys snorts into his drink. "Her name is Mercy? Oh, you are in so much trouble, brother."
The woman, Mercy, doesn't even blink at Rhys. She keeps her eyes pinned on Reid.
