Chapter 4: Pier Nine

The boatyard on Pier Nine smelled of cut cedar and diesel, and Miles Radford was waiting inside it with two coffees.

He handed me one.

"It's from a thermos," he said. "I thought you'd have opinions."

"It's hot," I said. "That's all I need from it."

He almost smiled.

The sun was low on the water, and a long white hull sat in a cradle between us, half sanded.

I put my laptop on a sawhorse and opened it.

"Before you say anything," I said, "I'm going to show you something."

I had stayed up until two in the morning pulling every file I owned.

The ferry deck photo, with the date March third, taken on my phone.

The dock photo in the blue dress, taken by my father, with his thumb in the corner of the frame.

My hands on a cutting board, with the thumb scar still pink.

Under each one, the file data showed my phone, my backup, my name.

Miles read each one slowly.

Then I put my phone next to the laptop and played him a voice note from my own message history.

It was me, at midnight, in a bad mood, saying that the walk-in freezer had a personality and it was a mean one.

He turned his head and listened.

"Brooke sent me that last June," he said quietly. "She said she'd recorded it for me."

"She recorded it off my phone speaker, on my couch. I was in the next room."

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