Page 67 of Letting Go

"We're done, Bryce. We're good. I've texted Noah. The Water Falcon is running and ready. Go find Chloe."

We've got a company boat docked at Boston Harbor and a helicopter on the roof in Boston as well. The Water Falcon is a swift, cross speedboat docked in Portland.

Mateus slides the nautical map off the hood of the car and nods at me as he opens the passenger door. "Let's go."

The Water Falcon is a Formula 430 Super Sport Crossover, perfect for upper-crust mingling, tailing, escorting, but fucking fast at nearly sixty-five miles, or fifty-six nautical miles an hour. We'd be there, at that speck on the map, in thirty minutes.

Mateus has trouble moving quickly and he can’t jump or land on his feet, but he leverages himself against the boat, grabs a guardrail, and hoists himself on board. Claire is adamant about coming, but Finn reminds her they need someone onshore to watch for Reed, and act as liaison with Nic on the radio in case cell phones are out. But it's the reminder that Chloe might need medical attention that keeps her onshore.

She's all business, holding the emergency radio receiver in her hands. She looks small, determined, standing on the pier, as Mateus takes us out.

The early morning splashes pink and orange across the balding, tree-studded islands on either side of us. We pick up speed. My heart catches. The boat is so loud, so powerful and then we are out on open water and Mateus ratchets up even further. We are flying. The spray and the cold leave my face numb and Finn comes back around to the helm to get out of the spray.

I need to pace.

It’s all I can do.

But there's no place to do it. Finn's up in the bow, Mateus is at the wheel, and I'm beside myself. I can’t even rage. Watching Mateus hoist himself into the boat only enflamed my guilt.

Then there's a rush of gratitude. I allow myself to feel it. Before two days ago, my last memory of Mateus was him sitting in a wheelchair, still in pain from the surgery cleaning up his amputation, thin, pale, weak. Not the guy standing at the helm, piloting this boat. We were on our way to PT when this asshole came out of nowhere and blocked the ramp leading into the facility.

When the fucker wouldn’t move, I gripped the handles of the wheelchair harder and tried to reason with him. He just kept taunting me, and then I found out why. He started screaming at Mateus to go back to Mexico where he came from. I lost it. That wash of red came on like a tidal wave and I pummeled the guy so hard he needed his jaw wired. There was a trial. I was discharged. My last memory of Mateus, was his face in that moment of fury, and it was full of disappointment.

I take a breath. The explosions weren't my fault. It was an accident.

Now he catches my eye and waves me to the helm. He runs a hand through his hair and points.

Up ahead, is a wall of fog. Dense, cottony.

It's where we're heading.

In five minutes, we're in it. Thick, dense fog, folds around the Water Falcon in thready layers and the foghorn blares every several seconds. Mateus has to cut the engine to prevent us from crashing into rocks. We're so close.

Fuck fuck fuck.

What if she's bleeding out? What if we're too late? "How much longer," is about all I can say without my voice shaking.

"We're almost there, boss."

There's that word again. "Boss."

I can’t control my breathing and I don’t want eye contact with Finn, so I step toward the bow. I think I'm going to explode.

Suddenly, the lighthouse is visible, it’s electric light dispersing in the fog. Rocks loom near shore and the small gnarled bay is treacherous.

But Mateus is skilled. As good as Nic if he can get us in and out of here without a scrape.

Finn tosses a rope to the piling. "You stay with the boat," he says to Mateus. "We need you here in case we have to make a fast exit."

I'm not sure what he's thinking. There are no other boats docked here.

She's not here.

She's not here.

We fucking wasted all this time.

Where is she…