The outer harbor opens up ahead, the breakwater falling away to reveal the churning Atlantic. Waves slap against the hull in a rhythm I’ve known since childhood, the heartbeat of a life lived between land and sea. Salt spray kisses my face, and for a moment—just a moment—nothing exists between me and utter peace.
This is what I was born for. What generations of Daniels men were born for. Not the paperwork or the regulations or the constant financial juggling. Just the boat, the water, and the simple satisfaction of honest work.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket, and reality comes crashing back.
I ignore it. Probably my mother calling about Sunday dinner. Or my sister asking about the tuition payment. Or the bank reminding me about the second mortgage I took out to keep the boat running. Nothing that won’t keep until I’m back on solid ground.
The buzzing stops, then starts again immediately.
With a grunt of irritation, I cut the throttle back to idle and dig out the phone. The screen shows a number I don’t recognize—Harmony Harbor area code, but not one saved in my contacts.
I’m about to let it go to voicemail when some inexplicable urge makes me answer. Though it probably has something to do with getting three missed calls in a row from the same number.
“Hello.”
“Judah?” The voice is familiar, though I can’t immediately place it. Male, rough around the edges, with an undertone of urgency. “It’s Dom.”
The name hits like a rogue wave.
Dominic Romano.
I haven’t spoken to him in…God, how long? Months, at least. Maybe longer. We used to be inseparable, the three of us. Dom, me…and him. The one I don’t let myself think about. The one whose name I’ve trained myself to skip over like a stone skipping across water.
“Hey, Dom.” I keep my voice neutral, even as my gut tightens with something I refuse to name. “Been a while.”
“Yeah. I know.” A pause. Something that might be a heavy exhale or just static on the line. “Listen, I need to tell you something. And you’re not gonna like it.”
“Since when do you call to deliver good news?”
He doesn’t laugh. Dominic always laughs at my terrible jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny. The fact that he doesn’t now makes that knot in my stomach pull tighter.
“I’m at work,” I say, scanning the horizon for the marker buoys that signal my trap lines. “Whatever it is, can it wait?”
“No.” The word comes out clipped. Final. “It really can’t.”
I kill the engine entirely, letting theSecond Chancedrift on the current. Around me, the world goes quiet except for the slap of waves and the cry of gulls circling overhead.
“I’m listening.”
Another pause. When Dominic speaks again, his voice has gone strange. Careful. Like he’s handling something fragile.
“I was working the bar last night. Earl Miller came in—you know Earl, the mechanic from the airfield?”
“Uh huh.”
“He gave some people a ride from a private jet that had to emergency land. Engine trouble or something. They’re staying at the Seafoam.”
“Okay…” I don’t see where this is going, and the uncertainty is making me impatient. “Is there a point to this story?”
“One of the passengers.” Dominic’s voice drops. “It’s Mason.”
The name.
His name.
Air is driven from my lungs like I just took a punch to the gut. The phone nearly slips from my fingers, and I have to grab the rail to steady myself as the deck suddenly seems to tilt beneath my feet.
“What?”
