Page 16 of Everything You Hate
“It’s not a problem.”
“It sure the fuck is a problem. It’s aheadline. Dean Kinsella doesn’t go in the water for strangers. Especially not strangers working for us.” He turns back to me, eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re on the right side of this?”
I laugh. Because what other response is there to such a ridiculous question? But he continues to glare at me, expecting an answer.
“A good journalist doesn’t take sides,” I say after a beat.
“That’s cute.” He picks the whiskey back up. “But you want to. We didn’t bring you out here to tell the Havens’ version. You’ll find this island’s a small place, Ms. Crawford. Everybodyeats where we do. Everybody docks where we let them. It’d be a real shame to spend a season here on the wrong end of that.”
“Jasper.” Malcolm’s voice is quiet. Final.
Jasper holds his brother’s eyes for three long seconds. Then he shrugs and reaches for the wine.
“Just making conversation.”
Nobody says anything about it. Theodore asks whether I’ve been to the diner yet. Corey mentions the eagles. Malcolm signals for dessert.
Theodore is Abel’s father, it turns out. Once I know, the resemblance is obvious.
Malcolm walks me to the elevator himself.
“I hope that wasn’t overwhelming. Family meals can be complex.”
“It was illuminating,” I say.
“Good.” He presses the button for me. “I’ve set up a workspace for you at the library in town. Historical materials, maps, everything we’ve compiled on the legend. Use it however you see fit.”
“And the journals?”
“In due course.”
The elevator arrives. He holds the door with one hand.
“One more thing. My brother is protective of this family. He has reasons. But if anything he said made you uncomfortable, I’d like to apologize for it.”
He doesn’t say a word about whether Jasper was wrong.
“Thank you,” I say.
The doors close.
Back in my room, I stand at the window and look down at Port Haven. Somewhere down there is a ferry captain with storm-cloud eyes and a scar through his eyebrow, who jumped into cold water for a woman he’d known for an hour and then told her to stay away from his family.
And more than anything else in this town, I want to know his story.
I pull out my phone. No signal in the room, but the resort Wi-Fi is strong enough to launch satellites. I scroll through the photos I took today—the harbor from the ferry, the weathered storefronts, the diner’s neon sign buzzing against a gray sky. I pick the best three, filter them until the light goes moody and cinematic, and write a caption that’s careful and neutral and says nothing at all.
Port Haven, Day 1. This place has stories. I’m here to find them. #PortHaven #Washington #TreasureHunt
I hit post and set the phone down.
It starts within minutes. The comments. The likes. The shares. People I’ve never met tagging friends, planning trips, talking about the Fairchild treasure like it’s a thing already waiting to be dug up.
Changes the narrative, Malcolm said.That’s what changes the narrative.
I pick the phone back up and read my own caption again.
I open my notebook instead. Three lines on the page, in my own handwriting.
