Page 66 of Letting Go

Within a second, he's reached into the Lexus and brings out a nautical map and spreads it on the hood of the car.

"Look. The last ping was here." He points to the water. "But the last five pings were intermittent. Some hit some missed but there were all in a straight line. If we reprioritize the cell towers …" he changes the settings and then sets the phone down next to the nautical map. "Look. There are two more hits. Filling out the line."

"But to where?"

"He was heading back up the coast. And east."

I snatch the phone up and call the Harbor Master. Shifts should not have changed yet. It's Noah Tappen. We've worked with him before. Good guy. He can tell from my clipped intro this is not a social call. I ask if he remembers any boats heading out three to four hours earlier.

"Yes. There was one. A small speedboat. Two-stroke engine. Why?'

"Range?" mouths Mateus.

I press a button. "You're on speaker. How far could someone get?"

"On a quarter of a tank? At that guy's speed? Not too far. That's why I noticed him. He tore out of here once he cleared the lanes."

"How do you know he only had a quarter of a tank?"

There's a pause and the guy cuts out for a moment.

"Say again?"

"I said. Because he was pissed. Our petrol station was closed yesterday afternoon and he couldn't gas up. He'd come in and said he just had a quarter of a tank."

"Came in from where?" My hands are clammy.

"Don't know. He was out at one of the old emergency stations at some point. He had a bunch of questions about it. Friendly guy, but maybe too friendly. I—"

"Just a sec." I've pressed the phone to my chest and turned on the flashlight and peer down at the map. "Are old stations marked on here?"

Mateus is already on it and draws a straight light with his fingers from the points where the tracker pinged to a cluster of three islands. He taps the map with his knuckle and puts a hand on my shoulder. "We got her. See it?"

Curling the edge of the map up and against itself, I follow the straight line to Damariscove Island just north of us and off Boothbay Harbor. Sure enough, on a little speck of land is a tiny red circle, representing an emergency station, one of just a few sprinkled off the coast of Maine.

"The western edge."

"That's right," says Mateus.

Nic steps out. "Can you get them there?"

Mateus nods.

Them. It dawns on me Nic's not going. Of course not. The guy's a cold fish. He and Finn have this bromance I am not a part of and usually it doesn’t bother me. This morning, though, it fucking does.

"Chloe's not worth your time, but Claire was?"

Finn's head snaps up and Claire folds her arms. I want to punch something. Again. I wait for the red wash to return. I want to see red just like in Chloe's bedroom when I broke the chair. Just like when I beat the shit out of that civilian for screaming at Mateus.

I crave it right now.

Nic turns to me. In the moment, I can see I've hurt him. There's been a misstep. Mine. Again. His tone is low, even, as if he's trying to tame some wild beast and that, too, pisses me off. Condescending prick.

But all he says by way of explanation is, "No. Of course not. I've got to stay with Jackson and Raymond Clifton. There needs to be a seasoned agent there and at least two of us." His smile is fleeting. "You don’t need me to do this, Bryce."

Something releases in my chest. He does respect me. He's not being patronizing. Any chance to be engulfed in a red haze right now is gone.

I swallow. "I—I'm—"