"Can you tell us about your relationship with Alex?"Agent Sullivan asked, pulling out a notebook.
"Didn't really have one," he replied truthfully."Different shifts, mostly.Kid worked swing, I'm on days.Might have said hello in passing, but that's about it."
Agent Rivers leaned forward slightly."How long have you been working at Northern Star?"
"Forty-three years come March.Started here when I was twenty-one, right out of high school."The pride in his voice was genuine—it was one of his few honest accomplishments, the steady employment that had given his life structure and respectability.
"That's quite a record," Sullivan noted."Any disciplinary issues?Complaints from coworkers?"
"Nothing major.Few safety write-ups over the years, but nothing that stuck.I do my job, keep my head down, and go home to my family."The lies came as easily as breathing, polished smooth by decades of practice.
Agent Rivers was studying him with an intensity that made his skin crawl, though he maintained his placid expression.Something about her felt familiar, though he couldn't place where he might have seen her before.Television, maybe, or in one of the newspapers that occasionally featured FBI cases.
"We'd like to take a look at your boots," she said suddenly.
There it was.The real reason they were here.
"My boots?"He glanced down at his steel-toed work boots, worn but well-maintained, the soles showing the wear patterns of someone who spent his days walking on concrete and metal gratings."What for?"
"We found a footprint at the scene where Alex's body was discovered," Sullivan explained."We're checking all the long-term employees to see if we can eliminate anyone from our investigation."
He felt a flush of satisfaction at his own foresight.The boots on his feet had never touched the ice where Alex Novak had died.Those were different boots entirely—older, with more distinctive wear patterns, kept in his truck for his evening activities.These agents might as well be examining someone else's footwear.
"Sure," he said, lifting one foot and then the other as Agent Rivers photographed the soles with a digital camera."Whatever helps.That boy didn't deserve what happened to him."
"What do you think happened to him?"Rivers asked, lowering the camera.
He shrugged, a gesture he'd perfected over the years—the universal sign of a man who minded his own business."Ice fishing's dangerous.Lake don't forgive mistakes, especially this time of year.I've seen plenty of good people go through thin ice over the years."
"You fish much yourself?"
"Used to.Back when I was younger.These days I prefer to stay where it's warm."He chuckled, a sound that suggested a man comfortable with his advancing age and diminishing appetite for outdoor risks.
Agent Rivers was about to ask another question when Sullivan's phone buzzed.He glanced at it, then stood abruptly.
"We need to go," he said to his partner, his voice tight with urgency."Now."
Rivers looked frustrated by the interruption, but she rose and extended her hand again."Thank you for your time, Mr.—" She paused, consulting her notes."Thank you for your cooperation.We may need to follow up with you later."
"Any time," he replied, shaking her hand again."Hope you catch whoever did this to that boy."
As they filed out of the conference room, he remained seated for a moment longer, his mind processing what had just occurred.They suspected murder—that much was clear from their questions and their interest in his boots.But they had nothing concrete, nothing that could connect him to Alex's death or any of the others.
Still, as he watched Agent Rivers disappear down the hallway, something nagged at him.That face, those amber eyes—he'd seen them before, somewhere other than this sterile conference room.Recent, too, not some distant memory from years past.
Walking back to the maintenance bay, he mentally reviewed his recent activities.The marina where he'd been watching potential targets.The grocery store.The diner where he sometimes ate lunch.Had she been at any of those places?
The realization struck him as he picked up his wrench, and his hands stilled on the cold metal.Three weeks ago, at the harbor overlook, where he'd been studying the ice conditions and the patrol patterns.A woman with dark hair had been there, standing at the railing, talking on her phone.She'd noticed him watching her, their eyes meeting briefly before she'd turned away.
Agent Isla Rivers.
She'd been there, in his hunting ground, while he was planning his next move.Had she been investigating even then?Had she seen something that had made her suspicious?
For the first time in years, the Shipwrecker felt something he'd almost forgotten—genuine fear.Not the surface anxiety of being questioned by police, but the deep, primal terror of being truly hunted by someone who might actually be smart enough to catch him.
He went back to work on the winch cable, his movements automatic while his mind raced.The FBI was here, asking questions, taking pictures of boots.They knew enough to suspect that Alex's death wasn't accidental, which meant they might be looking at the others as well.
Sarah Sanchez.Marcus Webb.All the careful work he'd done over the years to make their deaths look like accidents.
