Just the one she’d sent a couple of hours ago, still sitting there like it hadn’t decided what it was yet.
Madden:
Swing by on your way back from hanging with Ford and Sawyer. I’ve got something to show you. Not an emergency.
I’d almost left right then.
But she’d said it wasn’t an emergency, and I was supposed to be here—supposed to be doing something normal, letting my brain stand down for a while. So I’d stayed. Had another beer. Let Sawyer run his mouth. Let Ford argue about wedding logistics like that was the most important problem in the world.
The niggle hadn’t gone away. It rode in the back of my skull, persistent as a bad tooth. I told myself the compulsive checking of my phone was habit. I’d hardly had the kind of downtime as a civilian for my nervous system to figure out how the fuck to do quiet yet.
Still.
When headlights swept across the living room wall and a car pulled up outside, I looked up automatically.
Peyton came in a minute later with Keeley at her heels, tail wagging like a metronome of joy, as if she hadn’t just spent the last several hours with her favorite human. Mimi’s car was already pulling away.
“Hey,” Peyton dropped her bag and bending to hug the dog. “Did I miss anything?”
“Just Sawyer being wrong about everything,” Ford said.
Sawyer scoffed. “Objectively false.”
I stood before I could get pulled into another round of banter. “I’m gonna head out. Early start.”
Ford frowned. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I moved toward the door. “Peyton, good to see you again.”
Sawyer stood as well and stretched. “I should get home to my wife before she decides to bring home more than one more dog.”
Peyton brightened. “Y’all are getting a new dog?”
“A foster,” Sawyer corrected.
Because I knew he’d get sucked in by her enthusiasm, I kept moving. Ford caught me at the door. “Text if you need backup.”
I nodded. “Will do. Thanks, brother.”
Outside, the air was finally cooler, the day’s heat loosening its grip now that night had settled in for real. July nights on Hatterwick were like that—heavy but quieter, the island exhaling after squeezing everything it could out of daylight.
Most of town had gone dark. A few pockets of light still glowed toward the boardwalk and downtown, but the marina was usually subdued at this hour. Boats rocked gently in their slips, lines creaking, the water slapping soft and lazy against hulls.
I drove with my phone sitting in the console where I’d notice any new incoming messages.
Nothing.
I was halfway down the road toward the marina when my brain registered something wrong before I consciously saw it.
Light.
Not the steady, contained glow of dock lights or cabin lamps. This was brighter. Erratic. Flickering in a way that didn’t belong.
I slowed, eyes narrowing, scanning past the silhouettes of masts and rigging. I still couldn’t see the source—too many boats between me and the inner slips—but my pulse kicked up anyway as I whipped into the nearest parking spot and opened the door.
As soon as I did, I smelled it. The stench of smoke rode the air like a warning.
I bolted down the dock, looking for someone, anyone, to help. The closer I got, the thicker the air became. Acrid, biting, laced with something that made the back of my throat sting.
