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I'm terrified nothing I’ve done will matter. That the only thing he'll ever see is that signature.

Chapter 11

Aiden

Her truck is parked outside the marine supply store, same spot she backs into every night, perfectly straight against the curb. Her window is dark. The entire street is still dark.

The starter motor has been grinding for a week and a half. I've heard it every morning from the yard. I diagnosed it from thirty feet the same way I diagnosed the Chris-Craft’s impeller. Two seconds, no looking under the hood required. The noise told me exactly what the problem is. I haven’t said a word to her about it, and she hasn’t made any move to get it fixed.

I don’t want her getting stranded on the side of some abandoned coastal road with no cell reception, so I drove to Rockland yesterday for the part. Told myself I needed hydraulic fittings anyway, which is true, though I usually have them delivered.

Everything I'm telling myself is true and none of it’s the reason I'm here. On my back, under her car with a ratchet set, looking up at the underside of her 4x4 while she sleeps twenty feet above me. There’s no version of this that a sane person would do.

The argument about whether she leaves ended Saturday in the water.

Not when I went in after her. I'd go in for anybody. A tourist, a kid, even Whitmore in his linen shirt. Somebody goes under, you get them out. It’s basically part of the job.

But there were three seconds where the line dragged her under the dock and the water was dark and I couldn't see her. I thought she was under the hull, and something happened to me that I don't have a word for. Not fear for a person in the water. Fear like the roof coming off the workshop. Fear like watching the dock crack in half and knowing you can't stop it.

Fear like something integral to my existence was being taken from me and I’d never recover from the loss.

It was enough time to realize I wasn’t firing her. Even if keeping her around is a disaster waiting to happen. She can stay where I can keep an eye on her, but nothing like that kiss can happen again.

I pull out the old starter, bolt the new one in, connect the leads, tighten everything down. My hands know what they're doing. They always know what they're doing. It's the rest of me that's lost.

I slide out and wipe the grease on my jeans. Her window is still dark. She has no idea I'm here, and she doesn’t need to, because this is a starter motor, not a romantic gesture. Nobody ever needs to know.

She won’t break down and I’ll have peace of mind. End of story.

I drive back to the yard.

Marcus pulls in while I'm tearing down the Friday outboard. He looks at my hands. Fresh grease that doesn't match the job on the bench. Then he looks at the Rockland fittings still in the bag on the shelf, and he sets his coffee down.

"How's her truck running?"

Nosy bastard. I should have known better than to leave any evidence where this damn meddler could see it.

"Fine."

"Starter?"

"Fixed."

He picks his coffee back up. "This morning?"

"Early."

"At the yard?"

"Does it matter? I don’t pay you to stand around playing twenty questions with me. Find something to do."

Marcus takes a long sip. Nods. Then the jaunty whistling starts, low and satisfied, all the way back to the sander.

I stomp to the office and pull the payroll folder. Her trial deduction has been coming out of every check. Sixty a week, standard agency fee. I cross through the line, initial it, and put it back where I found it.

Her handwriting is everywhere in here. On the invoices, on the callback list taped to the wall, on the sticky note sitting on the monitor right now, reminding me to confirm the radar refund landed on Tuesday if she's no longer here.

She shouldn’t be.