Page 62 of Presumed Dead

“The twelve-month pull came in,” Caleb said. “Pruitt’s been running this route for at least fourteen months. Heavy weather, always. He’s good at it.”

“Fourteen months.”

“Which means he was running it while Sloane Mercer was walking out to that slip every morning grieving a brother. Right under her.”

Ethan sat with that. It sat badly.

“Vale.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d she take it last night?”

“Better than I deserved.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Ethan looked across the slip water. Her truck was gone from the lot. The office was dark. Somewhere across town she was home, in a house he’d never seen, doing the ordinary evening things he found himself wanting to know the shape of, and the wanting-to-know was the problem, and he wasn’t going to pretend to Caleb that it wasn’t.

“She put her hand on mine today,” he said. “At lunch. For about two seconds.”

Caleb was quiet.

“And?”

“And I’ve thought about it every minute since.”

The line was quiet long enough that Ethan thought maybe Caleb had decided to let it go. He hadn’t.

“I’m going to say one thing and then I’m going to drop it,” Caleb said. “When this breaks, it’s going to break hard, and there’s a piece of it coming that’s going to land on her like the end of the world. You know the piece I mean.”

“I know the piece.”

“When it lands, she’s going to look at you and try to figure out whether you were her friend or her operation. And the answer’s going to have to be true, because she’ll know if it isn’t. So you’d better get it straight in your own head now, while there’s still time, which one she is.”

Ethan watched the dark water move against the pilings.

“She’s not the operation,” he said.

“You sure?”

“She stopped being the operation somewhere around the time she put her hand on mine and didn’t ask me a single question she could’ve used.”

Caleb let out a long breath, and when he spoke again the professional was still there, but something underneath it had gone gentle, the voice of a man who’d watched his own line blur once and come out the far side married to it.

“Then do the job,” Caleb said, “and take care of her, and God help you, Vale, because those two things are about to be the same thing and the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

“I know.”

“Get some sleep.”

The line went dead.

Ethan sat in the cockpit a long time after that, in the dark, with the marina ticking and settling around him and the water working at the pilings and the empty slip across the way where a man ran cargo through a storm while a woman grieved twenty feet from his cleats.

He thought about the blue of her eyes. He thought about her hand on his. And he thought about the piece coming that would land on her like the end of the world, and he made himself a promise he had no right to make and every intention of keeping, which was that when it landed, he would be standing close enough to catch what he could of her.

Then he went below and, for the first time in longer than he could remember, fell asleep thinking about a future instead of a file.