I dried my hands slowly. “Define fucked.”
“You remember the Fourth,” he said. “Boston Marina. I chartered out the Grady White for the weekend to make some quick cash?”
“Yeah?” I replied slowly.
“I never told my uncle I was using my fishing boat and slip as a side hustle in his marina…”
My stomach dipped. “Fuck.”
“One of the guys—got hammered. Fell off the dock. Cracked his head on the outboard. Almost drowned.”
“Jesus. Is he?—”
“He’s alive,” Tony said. “Which is apparently worse.”
I leaned against the counter.
“Some asshole had a GoPro,” he went on. “Whole thing’s on camera. It’s already circulating. Insurance is involved. Lawyers are sniffing around. It’s gonna hit the news cycle by tomorrow.”
Of course it was.
Fourth of July weekend. Boats. Booze. Rich idiots. I was already trying to forget the bad parts of mine.
“It wasn’t even our fault,” Tony said, defensive. “He was drinking for hours. Broke the contract he signed.But you know how this goes. Somebody gets hurt and suddenly everybody’s liable.”
“Who’s suing?” I asked.
“Everyone with a pulse,” he said. “The dude. His traumatized girlfriend. The owner of the slip next to theirs— the ambulance chasing attorney is already circling. I’ve got a meeting with my uncle tonight. If you don’t hear from me again—they dumped my body in the harbor.”
“Fuck, Tony. You really fucked this one up. And you don’t even need extra money.”
Behind me, Sage had gone very still.
She wasn’t pretending not to listen.
She was tracking.
“Put him on speaker,” she said quietly.
I covered the phone. “Sage?—”
“Speaker.”
Something about her tone made it not a request.
I hit the button.
“Hey, Tony,” I said. “You’re on with Sage.”
There was a pause.
“Oh—uh—hey,” Tony said.
“Hi, Tony,” she said calmly. “Which carrier?”
“What?”
“Insurance,” she said. “Who’s underwriting the marina?”
