Page 11 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

One of the crew members points toward floating debris. "There."

The vessel alters course. Broken timber drifts between the waves, and several fishermen move closer. I crouch beside the railing. Years of rescue work taught me how to read wreckage. Storms leave patterns. Damage tells stories. This story doesn't make sense.

I reach down and grab a section of broken wood with a boat hook. The beam is twisted. Not shattered. Twisted. My frown deepens.

Row notices immediately. "What?"

I run my fingers across the damaged surface. "The break is wrong."

He crouches beside me. "Wrong how?"

I rotate the timber. "Storms hit with force."

"Obviously."

"This wasn't struck from one direction."

Row studies the wood, his expression remaining blank. I can't blame him. Most people wouldn't notice. I only do because I've spent years pulling wreckage from disaster sites. The fracture lines spread in multiple directions, the pressure marks wrong for waves.

Another damaged plank floats past. The same pattern appears there. Then another. And another.

The discomfort in my chest grows. Something happened out here, something that doesn't fit the explanation everyone keeps repeating.

I rise slowly. The horizon remains dark, the sea remains restless, yet the evidence beneath our feet refuses to cooperate with the story being told back in town.

By the time Gideon calls the search, we've found debris. Nothing more. No survivors, no bodies, no answers. Just questions. Far too many questions.

The harbor is crowded when we return. Word spreads quickly in a town this size, people gathering near the docks hoping for news worth hearing. Nobody does.

As the crew unloads recovered debris, I begin talking to fishermen who witnessed the storm. The first man is eager to share his story.

"I saw her."

"Saw who?"

"The witch." His answer arrives immediately, and several nearby fishermen nod, encouraging him to continue. "She was riding the storm."

I blink. "Riding it."

"Like a queen." His expression grows dramatic. "She had snakes for hair."

I stare. The fisherman remains completely serious.

"Snakes."

"That's right."

I thank him and move on before he adds wings and fire to the story.

The next witness offers something entirely different. "There wasn't any woman."

That gets my attention. "No?"

The fisherman shakes his head. "Just lightning."

"What direction did the storm come from?"

"The east," his answer comes without hesitation.