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“Piers said prolonged standing can make his leg swell.”
“Piers cleared him for full duty two weeks ago.”
“I don’t trust Piers.”
Storm laughs. “You trusted him when he saved Ben’s life.”
“That was different.”
“Of course it was.”
She joins me beside the outdoor table on the upper deck. San Francisco rises around us beneath a clear blue sky. The Sea Whisper is docked at the marina, decorated with white flowers and strands of soft lights Willow insisted we hang before sunset.
Tonight isn’t only a celebration.
It is the first time everyone has been together since Simon and Donald were formally charged.
The federal indictments fill more than two hundred pages.
Kidnapping.
Human trafficking.
Weapons smuggling.
Attempted murder.
Murder.
Conspiracy.
Obstruction of justice.
The evidence recovered from Daniel Sinclair’s film has connected eighteen people to the Blackwater routes. Seven have already been arrested. Four more are awaiting extradition from other countries.
The Coast Guard and federal authorities permanently closed the hidden shipping route through the island. The old access points have been sealed, and the few families living legally on the far side of the mountain have been left in peace.
Blackwater can no longer be used to hide people or weapons.
It is only an island again.
Perhaps one day, that name will no longer frighten any of us.
“What are you thinking about?” Storm asks.
“Dad.”
Her gaze moves toward the small table beneath the covered section of the deck.
Grandpa’s compass rests in a glass case beside a photograph of our father.
For years, I believed the compass held a secret compartment or a hidden map.
We were wrong.
The scratch across its back wasn’t damage. It was an arrow. When Captain Marquez aligned the compass with north and held it over Dad’s old photograph, the arrow pointed directly toward the figure standing behind him.
Robert Hale.
