Todd

The docks are quiet this early—a quiet that sinks into my bones and makes me feel like I’m the only one alive. The air is icy, sharp enough to sting my nose and bite my fingers through my gloves, but I’m used to the cold. March in Northwick Cove doesn’t care how many layers you’ve got on—it always finds a way to remind you who’s boss.

My brother is already on our boat, the Sea Spirit, and Colton moves like a man who’s been doing this his whole life. Which he has. We both have. His boots thud against the deck and mix with the sounds of the Gulf of Maine lapping at the Sea Spirit, as he checks our traps and the nets.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Neither of us do. This isn’t the kind of work where you talk much. We know what needs doing, and we do it.

I haul the last crate of bait onboard, and the weight pulls at my shoulders. Nothing new there either, nor is the briny and sour smell any different than usual. I wrinkle my nose. It doesn’t bother me like it used to, but the first sniff in the morning isn’t pleasant. You get used to it after a while, the same way you grow accustomed to the creak of the wood beneath your feet and the constant tug of the tide against the hull.

“Ready?” I ask, even though I know it is. Colton’s nothing if not thorough.

He glances up from the winch, his face half-hidden under the brim of his cap. “Almost. Check the lines.”

I nod and head to the stern. The rope is in my hands before he finishes speaking. It’s the kind of rhythm I don’t think about anymore. Pull the lines, tie the knots, double-check the traps. Every loop and twist is ingrained in my body like muscle memory, like I don’t have to think about breathing.

The sun’s barely a suggestion on the horizon, a pale smear of light against the gray sky. The water laps against the pilings, and somewhere in the distance, a gull screams its morning greeting. We will return to the docks in a few hours to sell our catch in a small shop to tourists and locals. But right now, it’s only us and the sound of the ocean. Not many tourists here at this time of year. Too fucking cold!

I glance back at Colton as he secures the winch.

He’s got that look on his face—the one that says he’s completely in his head. He’s always been like that. My brother thinks too much. He worries too much, too. It’s what makes him good at his job and why I’m satisfied with letting him lead, but sometimes I wish he’d let himself breathe.

“You gonna stand there all day or are you gonna help me with this?” His voice is loud in the quiet and knife-sharp.

I smirk, grabbing the nearest coil of rope. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m coming.”

He shakes his head, but the ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. That’s as close as Colton gets to admitting he enjoys our banter as much as I do.

By the time the Spirit’s ready, the sky has shifted to that washed-out shade of blue that means the day’s finally waking. The wind’s still cold, but it’s not biting anymore, just nudging—trying to remind you not to get too comfortable.

Colton climbs up to the wheelhouse and fires up the engine. It sputters once, twice, then roars to life. The tang of diesel fills the air and the engine settles to a steady hum. I grab the thermos from the bench and pour two mugs of coffee, the steam curling up into the cold like smoke signals.

I hand Colton his mug as he leans out of the wheelhouse. He takes it without a word, already focusing on the ocean ahead. That’s just how taciturn he is. I won’t get a “thanks,” let alone small talk. Colton is all action.

I lean against the railing, the mug warm in my hands, and watch as the docks start to blur and fade, swallowed up by the open water. The horizon stretches out ahead of us, endless and unbroken, the waves catching the morning light like shards of glass.

Colton glances at me, and his brow furrows.

Yeah, he knows what I’m thinking about.

I sip my coffee and enjoy the bitter brew as I anticipate the kick of my morning caffeine.

We agree on most things in life—working with the sea instead of against it, using its resources but not misusing them, and taking care of the things and people we love.

He doesn’t speak and keeps his eyes on the horizon. That’s Colton for you. Always waiting, always watching.

The Sea Spirit lurches forward, and the engine groans against the pull of the waves. I plant my boots firmly on the deck and glance back at the shore, at the soft glow of lights from Northwick Cove shrinking into the fading darkness. It’s always like this—watching the town disappear into the horizon feels like leaving a piece of myself behind. It’s no different when I return from the ocean, though. I’m a man of the land and the sea.

The wind flaps my jacket and tugs at it with invisible hands, so I put up my collar with one hand, still holding my rapidly cooling mug with the other. I let my gaze linger on the shoreline until it’s no more than a smudge of light against the black sky. There’s comfort in that faint glow, a reminder of what’s waiting for us when we get back—our people, our home. What’s left of it, anyway.

Northwick Cove wasn’t always like this. Hell, there was a time when this place was alive, thriving. Back in the nineteenth century, the hills were rich with minerals—iron, silver, even traces of gold—and the sea provided a bounty of its own. Fishermen pulled in nets so heavy they’d snap if you weren’t careful, and the woods were teeming with game. Everything the earth had to give, Northwick Cove took, and for a while, it worked.

But by the end of that era, the mines were worked out. The veins of ore the townspeople had relied on for decades were scooped clean by men who didn’t think about tomorrow. And the sea gave her treasures, too, until there were no more to give. By the time the twentieth century rolled around, the cod and haddock were gone, the lobster traps came up empty, and the woods were a shadow of what they’d been.

Northwick Cove was bled dry. By generations who took without thinking of what came next. And when nothing remained, people did what people always do—they left, too. Packed up their lives and dreams and moved on to greener pastures. All except for the stubborn ones, the ones who stayed because they couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Because this was home, no matter how hard it got. Like our grandparents.

The people who stayed learned to work with the land and the ocean, not against it. To take only what we needed and give back where we could. It’s an uphill battle, and one we’re still fighting every day. The ocean’s slowly recovering, and so are the woods, but we haven’t yet fixed what has been broken.

It’s not a life most people are cut out for. Especially not women.

I don’t blame them, honestly. Life out here isn’t easy. It’s cold, hard, and unforgiving. You don’t get days off or time to breathe. You take what the earth and sea give you and hope it’s enough to get through another day. Most women want more than that—they want comfort, security, something the Cove can’t offer. That’s why the ratio is what it is. Three men for every woman. Many of the guys here have resigned themselves to bachelorhood, or they’ve left to find wives elsewhere. The ones who stay? They make it work however they can.

I’m turning thirty next month, the big three-O. Makes a man think about his future, about settling with a wife to raise some children. I make a decent living with my brother. I’m not rich, but I can support a woman. I can protect her and cherish her.

The boat dips and rises with the waves, the engine churning steadily beneath my feet. I reach for the thermos and hold it in the air. “Want more?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

I pour another mug for myself. Nothing much to do until we reach the traps.

But as I lean against the railing, staring out at the endless stretch of black water, I can’t help but hope something more awaits us out there—something bigger than fish and crab traps and the ghosts of what this town used to be.

***

Colton

The Sea Spirit rocks underfoot, but I’m used to it. The first time our grandfather took me with him, I was three. Puked my guts out, got a slap on the back that almost toppled me into the water, and still loved it. The net groans in protest while I haul it up. My shoulders burn, the strain shooting through my arms like fire, but it’s a good pain—a necessary one. The sea doesn’t give without taking something back. That’s simply the way it is.

Salty liquid spray coats my face, cold as ice, but I keep pulling until the weight shifts, and the net breaches the surface. The catch spills onto the deck in a writhing, flopping mess—a fair number of cod, a few haddock, and a handful of lion’s mane jelly fish. They always freak me out somewhat, but it’s part of the job.

“Not bad,” Todd calls from across the deck, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. He’s already working on the next line, moving his hands quick and sure. That one always has too much energy for his own good.

I crouch by the pile and start sorting. The fish slap against my gloves, slick and cold, their gills flaring like they’re gasping for a second chance. I toss the small ones back without a second thought. No use keeping what isn’t big enough to feed anyone. That’s the rule: take only what you need. Nothing more.

I chuck another one overboard, and it vanishes with a splash, the water swallowing it whole.

Todd glances over. “You’re picky today.”

“We can’t feed the town with scraps.” I toss a cod into the crate.

He knows that. He doesn’t argue; he never does when it comes to this. We’ve been doing it this way for years, ever since Dad drilled it into us. If the ocean’s going to survive, we’ve got to give her the chance. Some of the other fishermen in town don’t get that. They take what they can, thinking they’ll be long gone before the sea’s riches dry up. But not us. Dad wouldn’t have it. And I won’t, either.

The wind shifts, carrying Todd’s voice across the deck. “So, have you thought about last night?”

I glance up, frowning. “Last night?”

He straightens and huffs out air. His breath curls into the cold air like smoke. “About what I said last night. You know. Getting married. Having a few kids.”

I snort and shake my head. “We’re working. Can’t this wait?”

“Nope.” He grins, starts pulling up one of the crab traps we left yesterday. “You’re stuck on this boat with me, Brother. Might as well talk while we’ve got the time.”

I don’t answer right away, simply focus on the buoy in front of me, and put my back into pulling up the other crab trap.

A wife. Kids. I don’t know how Todd still holds onto that dream. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t remember. He was just a baby when Grandpa died at sea, too young to understand what it did to our family. But I remember. I remember the way Grandma stood at the docks, the way her gnarly, work-reddened hands shaking, and her eyes empty . I remember the way Dad cried in the kitchen that night, thinking we couldn’t hear him. I remember the way the house felt colder after that, even with the fire burning.

Todd doesn’t know what it’s like to see a widow trying to keep it together for her kids and grandkids, doesn’t know what it’s like to lose someone to the sea and wonder if it’s going to happen again. I do, and I’d rather die alone than put someone through that.

Besides, who’s he thinking of marrying? There aren’t many women left in Northwick Cove, and the ones who stay aren’t my type. I’ve never met one I’d want to wake next to every day. Not here, not anywhere.

The Sea Spirit lurches, and I catch myself on the railing. Todd doesn’t notice, too busy with the trap. He’s still grinning, like the thought of a family is enough to keep him warm in this cold, unforgiving place.

“You really think this is the life for a wife and kids?” I ask. “What kind of future are you offering, Todd? Empty traps and a cold bed half the year?”

He pauses, his hands stilling over the net. “We make it work. People always make it work when it matters.”

I shake my head, turning back to the pile of fish. “Maybe, but not for me.”

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right person.” His light tone holds an edge.

The boat rocks, the waves slapping against the hull like they’re trying to remind us who’s in charge. I pull the trap onto the deck and check its contents.

Todd doesn’t say more, and neither do I. The sea doesn’t care about dreams or plans. She takes what she wants. Always has. Always will.

Chapter Two

Savannah

The scraping of forks against plates grates on my nerves. It’s not loud, but it feels like a drill boring straight into my skull. Each scrape tightens the coil in my chest, winding it so tight it might snap. The kitchen’s quiet otherwise—no TV, no music, just me and Mom, the clatter of dishes, and the suffocating silence of two people pretending everything’s fine.

Mom glances at me from across the table, her dark-blond brows pulled low over those sharp, sky-blue eyes that miss nothing. She’s watching me, waiting for me to eat more than the three bites. The rest of the food I’ve pushed around my plate. She’s biting her tongue, trying not to say something that will make me snap. But Judith Demeyer isn’t a person to hold her tongue. She’s in her mid-fifties and as fit as she was when she raised the product of a one-night stand while finishing her degree in the evenings and holding down a full-time job.

“Anna.” She sets down her fork and folds her arms. “You’re not even trying.”

The bite of chicken freezes halfway to my mouth. Anna. It’s what she’s called me since I was a kid, and normally it feels like home. Right now, it feels like she thinks I’m a little child. I let my fork clatter to the table. “I’m trying, Mom.”

“No, you’re not.” She leans forward, uncrossing her arms and resting them on the table between us. “You’ve been here three weeks. You barely leave the house. You barely eat. You barely sleep. Your therapist called. You’ve missed an appointment for a second time in a row.” She gives me her ‘Mom is not mad, Mom is disappointed’ look, where she tucks in her chin and glances over her glasses.

Fuck, I hate that look. “There’s no use going to therapy. It doesn’t work.”

“Therapy isn’t working because you don’t want it to work.”

I shove back my chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “You think I want to feel like this? You think I like being afraid of every little sound?” My voice cracks, betraying me, and I look away before she can see the tears welling up.

Mom sighs loud enough for me to hear. “Baby girl, you don’t want to hear this, but you need to. So. Sit. Back. Down. And. Listen.” Each of the words is punctuated, like she’s letting out all the patience she’s been holding onto.

Merely to be contrary, I resist.

“Sit down, child. Don’t run from this. Not again.” Her tone has softened somewhat but still has that no-nonsense edge that used to get me grounded as a kid.

I hate how it still works.

My hands shake as I grip the edge of the table and lower myself back into the chair. Instead of looking at her, I stare at the streaks of gravy on my plate.

We sit in tense silence for a minute, the kind of silence that makes my skin itch. I know what she’s going to say next. She’s going make me talk about it. Again.

“What happened at the shop—” she starts.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.

“Tough.” Her voice is sharp now, the softness gone. “You need to talk about it, Anna. Keeping it bottled up isn’t helping.”

I shake my head, the coil in my chest tightening until it feels like I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to tell her to drop it, but the words stick in my throat. Her gaze softens, but only a fraction. She pushes back her chair, stands, and picks up her plate and mine. I sit there, frozen, as she moves to the sink, rinsing them under the tap.

The kitchen feels too small, the walls pressing in on me. The smells of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, and gravy turn my stomach. I hate how my hands shake as I reach for the napkin on my lap, twisting it between my fingers. The memory of that day creeps in like a shadow, dark and heavy.

The shop smells like oil and metal, the way it always does. I love it. I love everything that has an engine, and working on limousines, sportscars, and old-timers is the best a girl can get.

“Rev it again.” Danny’s voice is muffled under the hood, and I press the gas pedal. The roar of the engine changes as Danny tunes, and I ease up on the gas.

“Perfect,” he calls then adds an oath followed by the clatter of metal on concrete. The fool dropped a wrench again. I laugh and shut down the engine. Just as I want to climb out of the dove-grey 1965 Aston Martin DB5, the shop door slams open and someone with a gruff voice calls, “Hands up! Nobody fucking move!”

The words cut like a knife, and my laugh dies on my lips.

My boss, Mitch, is behind the counter, and quietly tells them they can take what they want.

My heart pounding like a drum, I fumble for my phone and duck under the steering wheel, where I settle between the driver’s seat and the dashboard, quickly tapping in 911 before pressing the phone to my ear.

My breathing is loud, and my hands shake as I whisper into the phone. “Two men. Guns. At Mitch’s Auto and Rental. Please hurry.”

“Shut the fuck up!” The shout is followed by a loud crash, and something shatters. Mitch tries to talk them down again, and his voice is trembling with the same fear that wracks my body.

“Take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt anyone,” Mitch implores.

And then the shot. One.

“Dad!” A thud and running boots on the concrete.

Then a second shot.

The wail of sirens.

I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle the scream threatening to break free. My pulse roars in my ears and drowns out the sound of the robbers’ curses and running feet.

I need to get out of the Aston Martin, but I’m frozen. Help Danny. Help Mitch.

“Armed police!”

“Anna!” Mom’s voice draws me back to the present, and I realize she’s crouched in front of me holding my face between her hands. My chest heaves, and my face is wet with tears I didn’t even feel fall. She uses her thumbs to wipe them away.

“Come on.” She pulls me to my feet, presses my face in her neck, and waits for my breathing to slow down. When I’m calmer, she guides me to the sink. “Help me with the dishes.”

It’s such a normal thing to do, and painfully mundane, but I let her push a dish towel into my hands. I dry while she washes, the rush of running water filling the space between us. The silence feels different now, but the chores help. The air is less heavy and less suffocating.

“You can’t keep living like this, Anna. Afraid of everything. Afraid of nothing.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“You leave.” She’s matter of fact, like she’s already decided for me. “You get out of Miami. Away from the noise, the crowds. Away from the memories.”

I laugh, short and bitter. “And go where? I don’t exactly have a plan.”

“You don’t need a plan. You just need to go.” She turns off the water, dries her hands, then goes to the closet. When she comes back, she’s holding a dart.

“What the hell is that for?” I ask, frowning.

She grabs the map off the wall, the one we used to mark road trips when I was a kid and unrolls it on the table. “You’re going to throw this dart, and wherever it lands, that’s where you’re going.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. “You can’t be serious.”

She holds out the dart to me, her face deadly serious. “You’re not staying here, so unless you’ve got a better idea, take the damn dart.”

I fumble as I take it, the weight heavier than it should be. I stare at the map, scanning the names of towns and cities, each one a potential escape, a potential mistake.

“Throw it,” she says.

I do. The dart spins through the air and lands with a dull thud. We both lean over the map to see where it’s landed.

Way up north. Mother-fucking Maine.

“Northwick Cove,” she reads, her lips quirking into a smirk. “Well, that’s... quaint.”

“Fuck, Mom.” I run a hand through my hair, laughing despite myself. “The things you get me into.”

Her smile softens, and she places a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Anna. You just need a fresh start.”

I study the map and the tiny dot that represents a place I’ve never heard of before. Freaking Maine—how cold is it up north this time of year?

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