Chapter 8: The Dock

I went down the outside stairs in my socks.

Brooke stood by her car with her arms crossed over her cardigan. Her wrist was still in the brace.

"How did you find me?" I asked.

"Your aunt."

"She wouldn't."

"She said you were safe. She said it was a harbor town with a boat yard."

She tried to smile.

"Google did the rest."

"It's midnight."

"I drove four hours."

"Then you can drive four back."

"Finbar, please. Ten minutes."

"No."

"I'll sit in the car all night."

"Then sit in the car," I said, and went back up the stairs.

I didn't sleep.

At five-thirty the diesel engines started up along the harbor, one after another.

The east dock filled with men in rubber boots, coils of line over their shoulders, thermoses in their fists.

When I looked out the window, Brooke was not in the car.

She was standing on the dock, in the middle of them.

I pulled on my boots and ran down.

"Finbar," Brooke said, loud and clear, as I stepped onto the planks.

She had waited for an audience.

"I'm sorry to do this here. I didn't know how else to reach you."

The fishermen kept working. They did not stop listening.

"Leave," I said.

"I will if you'll hear me. I wanted to tell you in private. You won't let me."

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