Vivian crouched beside him, her flashlight joining his. Inside, half-buried under a layer of ash and melted plastic, lay a folded sheet of paper laminated in cloudy plastic. Blake used the tip of his knife to fish it out and shook off the soot.
When the light hit it, her stomach tightened. “That’s a nautical chart.”
He nodded, flipping it open across his knee. The paper was old but intact, the edges smudged from handling. At the center, someone had circled a single coordinate in red grease pencil. The circle was jagged, the kind made by an impatient hand.
Vivian leaned closer. “That’s due east of Winter Harbor, near the old lighthouse.”
“Which one?”
“The abandoned one. The Coast Guard shut it down after the fire.” She frowned, brain already piecing through possibilities. “Could be a drop point. Or a rendezvous.”
Blake tilted his head, studying the faded numbers like he could read secrets in them. “Or bait.”
She looked up sharply. “You think Laurel planted it?”
“I think someone wanted whoever found this to come looking.” His tone darkened, quiet and certain. “Maybe the last owner of this boat got too close to something he shouldn’t have.”
Vivian’s chest tightened. “Or someone wanted to make surewedo.”
Blake gave a single, thoughtful nod, folding the chart again with practiced care. “Either way, it’s the first breadcrumb we’ve had in days.”
Of course it was.
Vivian sat back on her heels, arms crossed. Just like that—another lead, landing in his lap like divine favor. She got scorched. He got clues. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered.
He glanced at her, one brow raised. “What?”
“Nothing.” She stood, brushing ash from her pants. “Just wondering how you do it. Every time something blows up—literally—you walk away with a trail to follow while the rest of us are still putting out fires.”
A hint of a grin touched his mouth, the kind that always made her want to throw something. “Guess I’m lucky like that.”
She shook her head, refusing to let him see how that grin still did things to her. “Or maybe Laurel Tide just knows how to reel in the biggest fish.”
He rose, tucking the chart into his coat. “Then I guess we bite.”
Blake crackedtwo eggs into a dented skillet, the sizzle cutting through the stillness of the cabin. Outside, the wind had calmed to a low whistle, carrying the briny tang of low tide. Palelight seeped through the portholes, turning the air a washed-out gray.
Vivian was at the tiny galley counter, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs. Her movements were deliberate, controlled, like she was still trying to wrestle the night before into order.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye, the memory of her scream still branded on him. The smell of burnt varnish lingered, no matter how many times he’d scrubbed the cabin walls while they’d debriefed her non-eventful trip to the store.
“Think you might get some intel beyond the harbor today?” he asked, sliding a spatula under the eggs.
Vivian handed him a mug and shook her head. “More than yesterday, I hope. I’m thinking the harbor area store knew I wasn’t local, so they were too… too?—”
“Polished?”
“More like too many charming greetings.”
“Charm’s overrated,” he said.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, leaning against the counter. “People actually talk to you.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “What can I say? Must be my disarming smile.”
Her lips twitched—barely, but it was there. “More like they’re waiting for you to leave so they can breathe again.”
