I followed the familiar route around the curve of the harbor, past the line of charter boats rocking lazily in their slips, until the old marina came into view. It had been upgraded by the new owners sometime since my uncle had sold the business. I spotted upgraded slips, fresh wood, new signage. Rows of masts swayed against the sky, and beyond them, anchored in its usual spot, sat my uncle’s houseboat—a broad-hulled relic with white sides and chipped blue trim. The paint was dull from years of sea air and neglect, but the name was still clear on the stern: Second Wind.
I just hoped it could be that for me.
I parked in the open marina lot, cutting the engine. The silence that followed felt enormous. For a long moment I just sat there, watching the shimmer of light on the water. I hadn’t set foot on this dock since before everything fell apart—before my cousin Miles’s arrest, before California had burned through what was left of my faith in the world.
Now I was back with too many ghosts and nowhere else to go.
I texted Astrid that I’d arrived and opened the door. The air hit me like wet velvet when I climbed out. Damn, but I’d forgotten the oppressive humidity of the island in July. Sweat prickled instantly between my shoulder blades as I popped the trunk and pulled out my laptop bag. The rest of my luggage could wait until I got the keys turned, and the boat opened up.
The dock boards flexed underfoot as I walked, the wood sun-bleached and hot enough to feel through the soles of my sneakers. Every sound was amplified—the clank of rigging, the cry of a gull, the low murmur of water slapping against hulls. Most of the slips were full. Summer season was in full swing. A charter captain cussed amiably at a knot in a tone that told me business was good. A girl in a cover-up practiced a toe-touch jump off the end of a finger pier while her mom warned her not to break her neck in a voice that had “first day of vacation” optimism baked in.
By the time I reached the Second Wind, my nerves buzzed. The boat looked smaller than I remembered. No cheerful deck chairs now, no potted basil on the rail. Just a closed-up cabin and windows dulled by dust and time.
I stepped aboard, and the hull shifted under my weight, a slow, sleepy protest. The lock was stiff and the door sticky, but they both gave, and air that had been shut in too long slid past me—hot, stale, edged with old varnish and something like cardboard. I propped the door open with my hip and reached for the little breaker panel. I flipped the breaker switch and was relieved when the lights flickered to life. Stale, but not dead. A good sign. Another switch had the little fan above the stove sputtering to life. I set the bag down on the bench and moved around the cabin, propping open windows to get some cross ventilation going.
“Could use a welcome committee,” I muttered.
As if summoned, quick footsteps sounded on the dock outside.
“Madden? You here?” Astrid’s voice carried that same confident energy I remembered from high school—sharp, bright, always three steps ahead.
“In here!”
I heard the thump of sure feet climbing aboard. A moment later, she appeared in the doorway, and the boat seemed less empty by half. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled into a functional ponytail; her sunglasses were propped on her head; she wore a tank and shorts and the kind of sandals you could hose off without guilt. Her grin spread wide. “You made it!”
“I did.”
Without warning, she darted in for a quick, tight hug, and for a second I forgot how to hold myself up. It had been so long since I’d had anything so uncomplicated as a hug from a friend. I relaxed a fraction, letting myself return the embrace.
“It’s good to see you.” She stepped back to study me in that quiet, assessing way she had. “You look… tired, but mostly okay.”
“Mostly okay is generous.” I gestured toward the door. “Bags are in the car.”
We fell into motion the way you do with people you used to see every day: easily, without having to narrate it. The walk back along the dock was shorter with someone beside me. The parking lot buzzed—a woman wrestling a beach umbrella into the back of a rental, a couple arguing about check-in times, a guy trying to convince his dog that the unfamiliar grate wasn’t a trap. Astrid took the heavier suitcase without waiting for a debate.
She hoisted it up. “What’s in this, lead?”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone, so I packed for all contingencies.”
That earned me a lifted eyebrow, but Astrid said nothing as we trudged with the last of my stuff back to the dock. By the time we reached the boat and set the bags inside, the little fan had started to make an actual difference. I opened another window in the aft, and the air shifted enough to carry out a layer of stillness.
Astrid stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyes sweeping the cabin and taking stock. “Not gonna lie—I can’t believe your uncle’s still got her.”
I followed her gaze around the narrow galley, taking in the scuffed countertop and the curtain with a faded compass print. “I guess he couldn’t quite let go.”
“Yeah.” She leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb. “After your folks left the island, and the Busbys sold their place, I figured this old girl would’ve gone next. Too many memories tied up in her.”
“That’s exactly why he didn’t,” I said quietly. “It’s one of the last pieces left of Gwen.”
Astrid nodded, her expression softening. “Makes sense.”
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable, just full of the things we both remembered but didn’t say out loud. The search parties. The vigils. The way people used to glance at me back then out of the corners of their eyes, like proximity was contamination.
Astrid blew out a breath, shaking it off. “Well, she’s still afloat. And she’ll do you fine until you figure out what’s next.”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “Such as it is.”
“Good.” She hesitated, her thumb making slow circles against the worn leather of her watchband—a nervous habit I remembered from high school. When she finally looked back at me, there was something careful in her expression. “So, what actually happened out there? In California, I mean. I heard you got fired, but we both know gossip’s like a game of telephone on this island. By the time it reaches the third person, you’re either a disgraced criminal or a whistleblowing hero.”
