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“As tempting as that sounds, I’m not here to pick up the latest Mistpoint Harbor gossip rag.” Plus, I’ve already had someone break a deal we made. I’m not stupid enough to take a second deal from anyone. I add, “I’m here to help you.”
He’s quiet, and his silence tells me everything I need to know.
He does need help.
I steer back to the safe topic. “You really think Parry and Brian should hook up?”
Brian has been out for as long as I can remember. He never hid the fact that he dated guys and girls. Hell, Colt and I even watched women and men leave Brian’s catamaran in the early mornings after what looked like a raunchy night. We both witnessed the goodbye kisses and the I’ll never talk to you again after this breakfasts.
The fisherman lasted the longest. And even that must’ve only been a couple weeks, at most. It’s not like Brian dated a lot or hooked up on the regular. I think he was selective. Picky. Even when it came to one-night stands.
“Yeah, I meant it,” Colt says. “The quicker those two can just find a way to screw out the hate, the better.”
“Are you really in the market to give relationship advice?”
“It’s sex advice, Zoey.” He opens one eye to look at me. “Speaking of relationships though—if there’s someone back in Chicago waiting for you, don’t you think they’ll miss you?”
“Nice shot.” I lean back, crossing my legs like I’m the Solver of Mysteries in this chair. Miss Mistpoint better watch out. “But I’m not telling you about my life in Chicago while you get to be Closed Lips McGee.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically, and when I decide to kick my feet up on the coffee table, Colt waves a finger at me. “No sitting. You’re not staying.”
I make a face. “I’ve been sitting.”
“You don’t need to get…comfortable.” He seems more uneasy. Cagey. He slowly lifts himself a little higher on the couch. “You need to go.”
What was he looking at? The maps? The door? “I’m here for you, Colt.”
“I don’t need you,” he spits back.
“Look at you!” I yell. “You’re drunk in the middle of the day. You’re practically a fucking skeleton, and your house is a dumpster and ashtray and why the fuck are you covering your ears?”
He twitches, rubs his ears, cringes—and something like shame crawls over his face. He mutters something.
“What?” My heart is racing.
“It’s not you,” he says more clearly, his feet now on the floor. His knees jostling. He motions to his ears. “I was listening to you. You weren’t who I was trying to tune out.”
Is he…hearing things?
“Colt—”
“You should go. You can’t help me.” His voice is shaking. “Go!”
I don’t move, and I lower my voice. “If our roles were reversed, you’d be right here in this chair screaming at me. So I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
He’s quiet. I let him take as long as he needs. A minute turns to two and enters into three before he whispers, “You’re not going to understand.”
“Give me a fucking chance at least,” I beg.
He slowly pulls out a pack of cigarettes from between the couch cushions. Gross. I watch him slam the pack against his hand a couple times before fishing out a cigarette. An old box of Drunk Pelican branded matches rest on the coffee table, and I lean forward to grab them.
He gives me a hard look, but before he can say anything, I’m tossing them to him.
He relaxes a fraction. “Thanks,” he mumbles and lights his cigarette.
I wait.
His knee jostles again. “It was around last December,” Colt explains. “There was a bad storm, and a distress call came in over the radio.” He stares at the ground like he’s being pushed back to that night. “Her voice…she was terrified. The signal was garbage. The static made it hard to hear her, but she was saying mayday. Over and over. Like her life depended on it.” He pauses. “I still hear her…I still replay it over…and over.” His eyes redden before he sucks the cigarette, blows out smoke. “Last thing she told me was her name is Augustine Anders and her boat was sinking.”
A shiver snakes through me, and I tighten October’s coat. “You must receive those calls a lot during bad weather.”
He shakes his head. “Most calls go to the Coast Guard unless the caller doesn’t know which station to use. But I saw something in the distance that night. It looked like a flickering light…” He glares at the ground. “I radioed the Coast Guard—but they were taking care of a freighter accident. They didn’t reach the area until the morning. By then, there was no boat. No girl. Nothing. They told me they couldn’t do anything, so I tried bringing it up with Sheriff Carmichael—”
