“There’s a boat.”
“What?” Ethan called from the wheel.
I pointed.
“Tied to the dock.”
Everyone turned.
Sure enough. A sailboat. Small but solid, its mast swaying gently in the breeze as it rocked beside the weathered pilings.
My brow furrowed.
“That isn’t Finn’s.”
Jeff glanced at me.
“You sure?”
I nodded slowly.
“Finn hates sailboats.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Says they’re for people who enjoy doing extra work for no reason.”
Ethan laughed.
“Fair point.” But I didn’t smile.
“It’s been a few years since I’ve visited,” I said slowly. “Maybe he picked up something new.”
Even as I said it, the words rang empty in my own mouth.
The Mariner drifted closer until only a few yards separated us from the dock.
The island sat still.
No lights in any of the structures through the trees. No movement along the shore, quiet except for the wind pushing through the pines and the soft creak of the sailboat’s rigging.
I turned back toward the others.
“We go carefully; something feels off. I’m just not sure what.”
Jeff nodded immediately.
“Agreed.”
He stepped to the storage crate near the wheelhouse and opened it, pulling out the pistol. The metal caught the fading sunlight as he checked the chamber with practiced hands.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “If there’s trouble, I’ve got the gun.”
I didn’t argue.
Ethan grabbed one of the long gaff hooks from the deck.