The first thing that Theodore Beck noticed when his ferry arrived at the small, coastal town of Harrow’s Reach was the children sitting on the near-rotted wharf, their legs dangling just above the murky water. The children, all in varying degrees of disarray—dirty faces, clothes that were a little too big, hair that seemed to have been through a storm—gazed out toward the horizon, unbothered by the thick gray clouds hanging like a wet blanket over the sky. Kids usually didn’t look so solemn, did they? But then again, maybe they just didn’t have anything better to do in a town this quiet.
It’s a day for nothing, he thought, a day that clung to him like the clammy air. It smelled of brine, but not the refreshing scent of the ocean. No, this was saltwater thick with the stench of old fish and decay. He wrinkled his nose but did his best to suppress the impulse to pinch it. A trawler creaked as it docked near the boat that had carried him here, its hull groaning in protest as it slid along the weathered wood of the pier. Theo glanced at the boat with a half-smirk. It looked as though it had been in this town longer than he’d been alive.
“Careful with that!” he called out as the captain of his boat—an old man with a long, gray beard and an eyepatch—heaved his suitcase from the boat and dropped it with an unceremonious thud onto the rotting planks. “My laptop’s in there!”
The captain didn’t even flinch. “I got things to do,” he muttered, his voice low and rasping, like the wind cutting through a craggy cliffside. “I gotta get back before dark. You can figure it out. Enjoy the town, yeah?”
Theo’s eyebrows shot up, and before he could protest, the captain had already turned and shuffled back onto the boat, leaving Theo alone. He hoisted his bag and surveyed his surroundings. The town was small with weathered buildings huddled together, as though afraid to face the wild sea alone. It felt like something out of a history book, or maybe a ghost story. The streets were narrow, twisting between buildings that were more crooked than quaint, their paint peeling under the weight of salt and time. Not a soul in sight apart from the children and the fishermen. Not even a seagull dared to cry.
“Perfect place for a vacation,” he muttered to no one in particular, the sarcasm slipping out before he could swallow it.
He took a deep breath, the heavy air filling his lungs, and started to walk. As he neared the edge of the wharf, he spotted her: a short, round woman with silver hair that was almost too neat for the wind-tousled town, wearing a dark business coat and matching skirt. She looked nothing like the politician he imagined. If he looked past her professional exterior, she would appear entirely grandmotherly. The type to bake cookies and keep old, hard candy in her purse.
“You must be Mr. Beck,” she said, her voice smooth, firm, and polite. “I’m Mayor Vivian Graves. Welcome to Harrow’s Reach.”
“Thank you for the invite, Mayor Graves,” he said, reaching out a hand to greet her. “Nice to finally see the place in person.”
The mayor gave him a knowing smile, her lips curling slightly at the corners. “It’s always different when you see it in person, isn’t it? The town’s charm is something you can only experience firsthand.”
“I’m sure.”
She motioned for him to follow as she started walking down the narrow street. The cobblestones were uneven beneath his feet, worn smooth by years of weather and traffic. The paint on the houses was chipped and peeling, their windows clouded with age. Even the small shopfronts looked like they’d been untouched for decades. “We pride ourselves on our history here. A lot of the buildings have been passed down for generations. My great-grandfather helped settle this town. It’s been quiet, but that’s what we like about it. We’re a close-knit community.” She glanced at Theo. “Not too many outsiders, but the few who come are always welcome. I think it’s time more people started to see what we have here. That’s why I’ve asked you to come. A little bit of attention never hurt anyone.”
“Is it alright if I take some photos while we walk?”
“Of course. Take as many as you need. I want the world to see the real charm of Harrow’s Reach.”
Theo raised the camera that hung around his neck, framing her against the backdrop of the sea. She was perfectly poised, her coat a stark contrast to the gray sky and calm waters. He snapped the picture, then lowered the camera. “Do you have any interesting spots to check out for photos? I’m looking for something more than the usual postcard shots.”
The mayor gestured toward the cliffs in the distance, where the ocean crashed against the rocks. “The cliffs are a favorite.”
Theo’s gaze followed her gesture. The cliffs looked foreboding, the rocks jagged, the water churning beneath them. If he squinted maybe he could think of them as beautiful, but right now he only thought of them as dangerous.
“And what about the people?” he asked, taking another picture from the street. “Anyone you’d recommend I talk to for the story?”
“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about that, first.”
Theo would be lying if he said a sense of dread didn’t wash over him. It came slowly, like fog creeping in off the water. He looked at the mayor and tried to put on a care-free smile. “I’m all ears.” They continued to walk into town, footsteps echoing on the cobbled street. Theo focused on the crunch of loose rocks and gravel beneath his shoe.
“Well, I’m sure you’re aware that I know who you are.”
“Of course.” Theo attempted a laugh that he hoped sounded as light as he intended it to. “It would be odd if you didn’t.”
“And you’re aware that I know you were recently suspended.”
A wave of embarrassment washed over Theo. “My editors didn’t want me to continue pursuing a story.”
“But you refused to drop it.”
“That’s right.”
Mayor Graves placed her hands behind her back. Theo suspected she was trying not to fidget. “Mr. Beck,” she said, “Harrow’s Reach is a private town.”
Theo watched her as she examined him.
“You understand why you were invited here. Exposure. Tourism. A friendly piece about a quiet coastal community.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “But you are not here to write whatever you want about my people.”
They reached the edge of the town square.
“You are here,” she went on, “to write the story I allow you to write. I will read every word before you submit it for publication. I will edit what I see fit. I will remove anything that does not serve Harrow’s Reach. And you will allow me to do so.”
“Ms. Graves—”
“Mayor Graves.”
“Mayor Graves.” Theo took a deep, steadying breath. “That isn’t how journalism works.”
She stopped walking.
When Theo turned to face her, he realized how quiet the street had become. No voices. No wind. Just the faint sound of water moving somewhere beyond the buildings. “Mr. Beck,” she said gently, “you have already demonstrated a willingness to ignore boundaries. Your paper may tolerate that. Harrow’s Reach does not. I’m sure you know what will happen to your career if you overstep your boundaries again.”
Theo swallowed. “Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not,” she said. Her hands batted at the air as if shooing away the very idea. “You can begin by talking to the fishermen. I’m sure they have some interesting stories to tell. You can also talk to Sheriff Keane and Reverend Finch. They’d be more than happy to assist you with any questions you may have. The sheriff’s office is on the edge of town, right around the corner from our little white church.”
Theo nodded.
The mayor put on a new smile. “Now, shall we continue?”
As Theo and Mayor Graves passed by the town’s small bakery, Theo caught a glimpse of the old wooden sign swinging above the door, its paint chipped, its letters faded. The scent of freshly baked bread mixed with something heavier, something fishier, in the air. A small group of townsfolk emerged from one of the buildings, chatting in low tones. They greeted the mayor with friendly smiles and nods, but Theo noted how their gazes lingered on him.
“Is everyone here as friendly as you are, Mayor Graves?” Theo asked as they watched the group disappear into a side street.
She laughed lightly. If the mayor picked up on his sarcasm, she didn’t show it. “Well, they’ve got their reservations. You know how small towns are. But in the end, they always come around.”
“I’m sure it’s a great place to visit for the right person.”
They came to a stop in front of a modest building with white stone walls and a faded green door. A large, wooden sign that hung above their heads read Halloway Inn.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” Mayor Graves said. “It’s nothing too extravagant, but it’s comfortable. Mrs. Halloway will take good care of you.”
Theo glanced at the inn. The wooden windowsills looked warped from years of salt air, but the lace curtains behind the glass gave it a strange sort of warmth. “Courtesy of the town, right?”
“Of course. We want to make sure you get the full experience.”
“I appreciate the hospitality.”
With a nod, she stepped back. “Get yourself settled. I’m sure you’ve had a long trip.”
He watched her walk away, her heels clicking softly against the damp stone road. Theo pushed open the inn’s door. A bell above the frame jingled softly, and warmth greeted him, faintly spiced, like old wood and tea. In the entryway stood an older woman, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a neat bun, her hands folded over the edge of a desk.
“You must be Mr. Beck,” she said, her voice steady, with just a hint of an accent Theo couldn’t place.
“That’s me,” he confirmed, adjusting the weight of his suitcase in his hand.
She turned, reaching for a key from a set of hooks behind the desk. “Mayor Graves called ahead. Said you’d be staying with us for a bit.” She placed the key on the counter. “Room three, up the stairs, second door on the left.”
Theo took the key, the brass cool against his palm. “Thanks.”
She hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Dinner’s at seven. If you need anything, just ask.”
“Appreciate it.”
The floorboards creaked beneath his steps as he climbed. His room was small but comfortable, with a bed pressed against the far wall and a window that overlooked the main street. He set his bag down. He frowned. Theo was used to chasing a story that someone didn’t want him to put his hands on. Whether that be the person at the heart of the story, or his editors not supporting the chase. And Theo wanted to believe that there was a story in Harrow’s Reach. He needed there to be. He was a writer that liked to get his hands dirty, to play in the mud and scrape the dirt out from under his nails to put towards an article. He liked doing the hard work that no one else wanted to do. He did not like getting shipped out to the middle of nowhere to write a human-interest story that only aimed at bringing exposure to a town that seemed like it was rotting from the outside-in. Theo feared that there was nothing interesting about Harrow’s Reach, and he was given the impossible task of finding something that was.
He thundered down the stairs and back out into the damp, salty air. It was nearly enough to make his nose burn, and he fought the urge to rub it with the back of his hand. He wasn’t sure where he was going or what he was looking for, but he hoped he would find it soon. He could feign interest in this assignment long enough to get it over with, but he didn’t want to drag it out any longer than he had to. Once this was over with and his editors trusted him again, he could get back to writing the stories he actually cared about.
Theo retraced his steps back to the wharf. There were men milling about, loading and unloading cargo from the various boats that were docked there. One man was hauling a net of fish onto the wooden surface of the dock, the bodies of the fish piling atop one another as they were dragged from the safety of the ocean. Their scales flashed dull silver in the overcast light, eyes glassy and unblinking. Another man followed behind him, club in hand, dispatching the ones that still twitched.
Further down the dock, crates were being shifted from boat to shore. Wooden boxes were stamped with faded lettering, their contents hidden beneath tarps and rope. Some were light enough to carry alone. Others took two men, faces straining as they lifted in practiced unison.
The children were still there, perched along the edge of the dock like seabirds. Two of them sat shoulder to shoulder, legs swinging lazily above the water. Another was leaned back on his palms. A fourth boy sat apart from them, closer to the end of the dock, kicking at the air with bare feet and watching the boats with rapt attention.
Theo lifted his camera, snapping a few photos of the men at work, the nets heavy with fish, the kids framed against the gray water. No one objected, but the conversations around him dipped lower, words swallowed by the creak of wood and the slap of waves.
Theo approached the nearest fisherman, a broad-shouldered man with a beard threaded through with gray. “Busy day?” Theo asked, raising his voice to be heard over the noise.
The man grunted. “Same as always.”
“What’s the catch like?” Theo continued. “I’m doing a piece on the town.”
The fisherman studied him for a moment, eyes flicking to the camera strap around Theo’s neck before answering. “Cod. Haddock. Whatever’s biting.” He hoisted the crate onto the dock with a dull thud. “Some goes to the mainland. Some stays here.”
“Processing it yourselves?” Theo asked. “Or shipping it out?”
“A bit of both.” Another man answered this time. Younger, with brown hair that fell around his shoulders. “We clean what we can. Salt it. Freeze it. The rest gets sent out in the morning.”
“And the other cargo?”
“Supplies. Fuel. Gear.”
The older man cut in. “That’s enough.”
Theo held up his hands, easy smile in place. “Just trying to understand how the town works.”
“It works fine,” the older man said. He turned back to his work, conversation clearly over.
The younger man grimaced, lowering his voice and pulling Theo to the side with a strong arm. “Sorry. The older folks here aren’t exactly known for their manners.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Theo told him. “I should have been more polite myself. I’m Theodore Beck. I’m a journalist from the Local Ledger, and I’m doing a story on Harrow’s Reach. I want the public to see this quaint little town as a town built on hard work and community.”
Theo didn’t share that by quaint he meant boring. He also didn’t share that he had no say in how his article was going to frame the town, nor did he say that he would rather by anywhere but on this smelly dock with loads and loads of dead fish.
The man removed one of his gloves—which Theo was sure was covered in some kind of guts—and shook his hand. His skin was covered in callouses and warm with sweat. “Graham Bennett. Fisherman by day and mechanic by night. Or vice versa. There’s no need to be so formal. I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”
“I appreciate that,” Theo said, keeping his tone light. “So, fisherman by day, mechanic by night. That pretty common around here?”
“Pretty much a requirement.” Graham jerked his chin toward the line of boats. “There aren’t enough of us for folks to do just one thing. We all pull our weight around here. We head out before sunrise, usually. Depends on the tides and the weather. Fish while the light’s good, haul back in by late morning if we can. Offload here, clean what’s worth keeping local, ice the rest.”
Theo followed his gaze as two men gutted fish with quick, practiced motions, hands moving faster than Theo’s eyes could track. Blood ran in thin streams between the planks, disappearing into the water below.
“And after that?” Theo asked.
“After that,” Graham said, “we do work where we’re needed. Whatever that is that day. Then come evening, we load up again.”
“Load up with fish?”
“Fish. Supplies. Whatever needs moving. We bring things in from the mainland. Fuel, parts, medicine. Stuff the town can’t make on its own. Goes out the same way. Fish, mostly. Salted, smoked, frozen.”
Theo glanced at a set of heavy crates being lowered into the hold of a trawler. They were stenciled with INDUSTRIAL GOODS but nothing else. “Doesn’t seem like much oversight,” Theo said. “For all that coming and going.”
“Oversight from who? Coast Guard doesn’t bother us unless there’s a storm bad enough to make the papers. And mainland buyers don’t care how the fish gets there, long as it’s fresh.” Graham paused and shrugged. “Predictable routes help. Same boats, same schedules.”
“Sounds like the fishermen keep the town running.”
“We do,” Graham said simply. “No fishermen, no fuel. No fuel, no power. No power, no town.” He nodded toward the children. “Those kids eat because boats go out. Church gets its donations because fish sell. All supplies come through us.”
“It’s a lot of responsibility.”
“Tell me about it.” Graham ran a hand through his hair before pulling his glove back on. “Look, most of this isn’t very exciting. It’s just work. Same work our parents did. Same work their parents did.”
A crate hit the dock with a heavy thump. The older fisherman barked something sharp and unintelligible, and Graham turned back toward the noise. “If you want quotes about hard work and community,” Graham said over his shoulder, “you’ll find plenty of them here. It just takes some time to get people to talk about it and it’s not very interesting.”
Theo watched him go, the words settling uncomfortably in his chest. He watched as Graham rejoined the other men and they resumed their rhythm. One of the kids laughed suddenly—too loud in the quiet—and a fisherman barked at them to mind the edge. One of the kids leaned back and scooted farther from the drop, though his toes still hovered just above the water’s surface. Theo glanced at the sea. It was calm, deceptively so, dark water stretching out beneath the gray sky. For a brief, inexplicable moment, he imagined the dock giving way, imagined how quickly something, or someone, could slip beneath the surface without much fuss at all.
He shook the thought off, raised his camera once more, and took another photo.
By the time Theo left the wharf, the light had begun to thin, the gray sky deepening into something closer to dusk than afternoon. His jacket smelled like fish and salt, his shoes damp from the planks. He had tried to talk to the harbormaster—the man who oversees the wharf and knows every boat that docks and exactly what they are carrying—but he wasn’t exactly keen on letting Theo into his office. Not desperate enough to beg, Theo counted his losses and headed over to see the sheriff.
The building sat near the edge of town, its windows dark. Theo tried the door anyway. Locked. He knocked, then again. Nothing. He craned his neck, peering through the glass. No movement. No sign that anyone had been there recently at all.
“Of course,” Theo muttered.
The harbormaster hadn’t wanted to talk. The fishermen had talked just enough. And now the sheriff was nowhere to be seen. He let out a slow breath and turned back toward town. By the time Theo pushed open the door to the inn, the sky had darkened completely. Mrs. Halloway looked up from behind the counter as he entered.
“Dinner’s in half an hour,” she said.
“Thanks,” Theo replied.
Upstairs, the sea wind rattled the window as he dropped onto the bed. He shrugged off his jacket then pulled out his notebook. Theo flipped to a blank page, pen hovering, before finally writing about the few things he had learned about the town on his first day. He was tasked with finding something interesting in this little place at the edge of the world, but all he found was hard work and quiet people who don’t like questions. There was no hook, no scandal, no obvious story. And that frustrated Theo. He closed the notebook and dropped it onto the nightstand. “This is what you get,” he muttered to the empty room, “for not knowing when to quit.”
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window harder.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d find something worth writing about.
Downstairs, a bell rang softly, signaling dinner. Theo pushed himself up from the narrow mattress and made his way down the creaking staircase.
The Halloway’s opted to fill their space with tables and chairs rather than couches and pillows, turning their living room into a restaurant setting of sorts for their overnight guests. Theo wondered if there were ever a time when these tables were filled with people, because right now it was looking more like a sad, lonely, old folks home. There was only one other guest, an older man with a curved back who sat alone near the hearth. The kitchen overlooked the area and Mrs. Halloway was cooking something that Theo could only guess was fish judging by the smell. He sat down at a table closest to the kitchen, farthest from the older man.
“Be right with you, Mr. Beck,” Mrs. Halloway called over to him.
She brought Theo’s plate out a moment later. Pan-seared cod with boiled potatoes and green beans. Steam curled up toward his face.
“Caught fresh this morning,” she said.
“Of course,” Theo responded. “Thank you, it looks great.”
He squeezed a lemon over the fish and took a bite. It was salty.
After Mrs. Halloway took dinner to the older man, Theo called her over to the table and lowered his voice. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Mr. Alder,” she said. “He comes by every so often. His wife passed last spring.”
“Oh.” Theo glanced at the man again. Mr. Alder cut into his fish with careful precision.
“He doesn’t much care for cooking for one. So, he comes here when he wants a proper meal.”
Theo nodded. “That’s kind of you.”
She shrugged. “It’s what neighbors do.”
The front door opened then, letting in a draft of colder air and the distant scent of brine. Heavy boots thudded against the entryway floor. “Smells good,” a man’s voice called.
Mr. Halloway appeared in the doorway, broad-shouldered and red-faced from the wind. He removed his cap before nodding at Theo.
“Evenin’.”
“Mr. Halloway,” Theo greeted.
The man nodded once at Mr. Alder before Mrs. Halloway helped him shrug off his coat. “Long day?” she asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like part of a script they’d rehearsed for decades.
“Always is.”
He washed his hands at the small sink in the corner. Mrs. Halloway plated another serving. They did not join Theo or Mr. Alder at their tables. Instead, Mrs. Halloway set two plates at a smaller table. She removed her apron and sat across from her husband. The four of them ate together. Separate tables. Separate silences.
When Theo was finished with his dinner, he nodded his thanks to Mrs. Halloway and put his dishes in the sink to be washed. He caught the eye of Mr. Halloway, who seemed to be watching his every move. The man huffed out a gruff, “G’night,” when Theo caught him staring, and he turned back to his food. Theo echoed him, then climbed up the stairs to his temporary bedroom, the second door on the left.
Theodore awoke to yelling outside on the street. The commotion was muffled by the glass of his window and the raindrops hitting the roof, but the desperation was unmistakable. He trudged from the comfort of the old mattress, the faint scent of dust and age scratching at his nose as he moved the quilt. He pried open the curtains that covered the small window and tried to peer out into the street. Where was the sound coming from? He couldn’t pinpoint a direction as it bounced off the tightly packed buildings, and the smudges on the glass from the rain certainly didn’t help. Theo pulled on his slippers and his jacket. He threw open the door of his bedroom, galloped down the stairs of the inn, and into the street.
Theo could tell now that whoever was outside yelling at this hour was a woman. Between her cries, and the rattling echoes it made, he could hear the ferocity of the waves crashing against the rocks. It was the loudest he had heard it since arriving in Harrow’s Reach, the quiet night bringing out its anger and rancor.
“MARK!”
The woman was closer now and her words were apparent. Theo found himself running through the streets, the cobblestone slick with salt and rain. The light from the streetlamps shone brightly in the puddles, and Theo felt like he was running through a tunnel.
“MAAARK! MARK?”
As Theo rounded a corner, he slipped in one of the golden puddles, rainwater seeping into his socks. Hands hit the rocky ground to catch himself from falling. A woman, with tears running down her cheeks and dark hair drenched and stuck to her face, looked at him with lost eyes. “Ma’am?” Theo asked, “Are you all right?”
“My son,” the woman responded, breathless. “I can’t find my son.”
She turned her attention away from Theo almost immediately and resumed her search. “MAAARK!”
“Ma’am!” Theo called, trying to stop her from turning away from him. “Let me help you!”
“Something isn’t right,” she said. “He always comes home, something isn’t right.”
“How old is your son? Where did you last see him?”
“He’s twelve. His name is Mark. I—He went out with his friends earlier today. He always comes home.”
Theo ran a hand through his wet hair, trying to redirect the rainwater that was running down his face like tears. “Have you reported him missing?”
“No, no. I—I have to look for him. He’ll come home, he’s just lost. If he hears my voice, he’ll come home.”
“Okay, okay, okay. I’m going to talk to the sheriff, okay? He can help.”
The woman just nodded, her eyes empty of thought. Theodore gently took her by the arm. “Ma’am, you need to go home, okay?”
“No, no, no. I have to look for him.”
“You need to go home,” Theo repeated. “The first place he’ll go is back home and you need to be there when he does. I’m going to find the sheriff.”
She nodded and opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. Theo left her in the rain, hoping she would get out of this storm. He began to jog down the street, splashing in those golden puddles as Mark’s mother watched him go.
The sheriff’s office was a small, converted house that sat on the border of town, a few yards away from the rocky cliffside that dropped into the ocean. There was a single light on inside, the raindrops on the window smudging and spreading it across the glass. Theodore pounded on the door. He heard footsteps, heavy and slow, approach the threshold. A lock clicked, and the door thudded open a few inches. A grisly face peered out at Theo through the crack. A single chain lock separated the two men.
“Wha d’ya want?”
“There’s a kid,” Theo swallowed. “A kid’s missing. Mark. He’s twelve. Uh, his mom is out looking for him right now.”
The man hummed, his eyes dropping down to his feet, and he closed the door. Theo heard the rattle of the chain before the door opened once again.
The sheriff looked more like a lumberjack than a sheriff, Theo decided. He wore dark jeans, a plaid shirt, and he was donned with a thick beard that was speckled gray. The only thing that gave away his authority was the belt he wore, which was decorated with a radio, handcuffs, and a pistol. Theo glanced around the office, which was really just a large, open room. There were a few desks, arranged in two rows and shoved against parallel walls. Theo noted that there were three closed doors, one on each side of the rectangular room.
“Are you gonna come in or just stand there and drip all over the floor?”
Theo’s eyes locked in on the sheriff, who was waiting for him by one of the desks. He had a towel in one of his hands, offering it to him.
As Theo dried himself off as best he could, the sheriff sat down at the desk and crossed his legs. He leaned back in the chair so far that Theo worried it would break. “Are you the reporter that the mayor dragged out here to do some story?”
“Journalist, yes.” Theo folded the towel and laid it on the desk. “She has requested I write something to attract tourists to Harrow’s Reach.”
“Tourists,” the sheriff scoffed, voice laced with something Theo would label as disgust. “Dunno what she thinks bringing tourists to the town will do for us, but it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“Yeah, well.” Theo wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m Theodore Beck.”
“Sheriff Keane.”
They shook hands.
“Alrighty then, Theodore. Tell me about this kid.”
Theo told Sheriff Keane everything he knew. Which wasn’t much. He told him about Mark’s mother yelling in the streets and that the last time she saw him was earlier that day. He told him that he didn’t come home. And that his mother wouldn’t report it because she needed to keep looking for him.
The sheriff sat up in his chair, feigning interest, as far as Theo could tell. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s it?”
“Is that it?” Sheriff Keane shot back. “The hell you mean ‘is that it?’”
“I just, I don’t know, expected you to be more worried about the kid.”
“Theodore, I’ll have you know that there is nothing to be worried about.”
Theo thought that there was plenty to worry about, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Listen.” The sheriff ran a hand over the side of his face, scrubbing at his beard like he was scratching an itch with his palm. “The kid probably ran away. Harrow’s Reach is small, so he couldn’t have gotten far. We’ll find him or he’ll turn up when he wants to. No one here wants to hurt a kid.”
There was truth in his words. Harrow’s Reach was a lot like Alcatraz when it came to isolation. You’d have to take a boat to get to the mainland. Theo didn’t think it was possible to swim the whole way there. If Mark ran away like Sheriff Keane thought, he would still be in Harrow’s Reach. No ferry or fisherman would take a twelve-year-old off the island without an adult with him. There was comfort in that.
“And his mother?”
Sheriff Keane leaned back in his chair once again. “I’ll go talk to her once this storm lets up. Ain’t no use in getting drenched over this.”
“There’s still a missing kid,” Theo argued. “He could be out in this storm for all we know. And we know his mother is running around in the street worried sick right now.”
“If Marissa Ashcroft wants to run around in the street in the middle of the night, that’s her business. Whole town knows she already does. Poor Mark probably ran away to get away from all that shit.”
Theo couldn’t hide the shock that coated his expression at the sheriff’s accusation. It was vulgar and entirely unprofessional of him to share that with Theodore. “Sheriff Keane,” he lowered his voice. “Are you saying that you’re not taking immediate action because of your opinions of Mrs. Ashcroft’s personal life?”
“Ms.” The sheriff corrected. “She’s a widow. And no, that’s not what I’m saying. Don’t go using your reporter voice on me, son. That doesn’t fly here.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Theo did. “I just want to help.”
“You can help by getting outta my office,” Sheriff Keane said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“When?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Sheriff Keane stood up from the desk, ending the conversation. He put on his hat and led Theo to the door. The man all but threw it open, the thundering of the rain hitting Theo’s ears like a cement wall. The ocean roared outside, fighting to be heard over the downpour.
Theo watched the man closely as he stepped out into the rain, gray eyes scrutinizing him as the rain pounded against Theo’s skull like bullets. They stared at one another, Theo blinking past the water that threatened to run into his eyes, and Sheriff Keane standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the one little light behind him. Sheriff Keane joined Theo in the rain. It quickly pooled on the brim of his hat, leaking down the sides. His flannel shirt soaked into a darker red. Theo couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from him, waiting for the man to make his next move.
Sensing that to be the case, Sheriff Keane removed his radio from his belt and held it up to his mouth. “Deputy Lee.” A pause. “Deputy Lee.”
There was a brush of static. Then a woman’s voice, “Deputy Lee here. Over.”
“Meet me at the Ashcroft residence,” Sheriff Keane said into the radio. He then looked at Theo. “Promptly.”
“I’ll be there in five. Over.”
The sheriff reattached the radio to his belt, then brushed past Theo and stomped out into the street. “Go back to your little hotel, Theodore,” he called over his shoulder, sludging through the puddles and mud. “It’s being handled.”
Theo watched him go until his silhouette bled into the storm, then he turned his attention to the cliffside. It was dark and the rain was heavy, his eyes failing to see where the cliff dropped and turned to water. Had someone been running and slipped on the mud, they easily could have careened off the edge and disappeared into the water below. The storm would have masked any indication of a splash.
He stepped closer to the edge despite himself, boots sinking into the soft earth. The wind shoved at his back, rain needling into his cheeks. He squinted into the dark. The water churned below, black and violent, hurling itself against the rocks in bursts of white foam. The drop wasn’t clean. It was jagged and cruel. Theo stepped away from the cliff’s edge and dragged a hand down his soaked face. A crack of lightning split the sky.
Theo didn’t follow the sheriff directly. Instead, he cut down a narrower side road that sloped toward the harbor, boots splashing through shallow streams that had formed along the gutters. The buildings loomed in warped shapes through the rain. He slowed near the bait shop, peering into the shadowed alley beside it. “Mark?” he called once, feeling foolish the moment the name left his mouth. The wind swallowed the sound whole.
By the time he reached the main stretch of houses, Sheriff Keane was already outside the Ashcroft residence. Another figure emerged from the opposite direction, Deputy Lee, presumably.
Theo stopped half a block away, keeping himself tucked beneath the skeletal branches of a cedar tree. From here, he could see the small house clearly enough. A single porch light was on and the front door stood open.
Marissa Ashcroft was still outside. She stood in her slippers, hair plastered to her face, calling her son’s name into the wind as if sheer volume might drag him home. Sheriff Keane had one hand raised as though calming a spooked animal.
Theo couldn’t hear the words exchanged. Marissa gestured wildly toward the road, then toward the trees beyond the town limit. Deputy Lee’s hood was pulled tight over her head. The three of them disappeared inside the house. Theo stood there, rain dripping off his nose.
He could go up now. Claim concern. Claim proximity. He was, after all, the one who had pushed Sheriff Keane into action. But the warning to let him handle it made Theo turn away from the Ashcroft house and walk back toward the inn. His eyes moved carefully over every yard, every shadow between houses, every place a twelve-year-old might duck into to escape the rain. Or to hide.
The storm raged on, and as Theo made his way back through Harrow’s Reach, one thought kept circling, stubborn: If Mark didn’t run away, then someone else knew exactly where he was.
The Drowned Truth: Chapter One