Page 30 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

Something inside me shifts. Small. Quiet. Important.

Trust. Not complete. Not blind. But real.

"I am now," I say softly.

For a moment, Finn simply looks at me and smiles. The expression reaching his eyes, warm and genuine. After a very long while, the road back to the lighthouse doesn't feel quite so lonely.

12

FINN

The farther I dig, the less I like what I find. That usually means I'm getting close to something useful.

I leave the boathouse shortly after sunrise and head toward the harbor. Fishing vessels crowd the docks, workers move crates between warehouses, and merchants negotiate prices, life continuing as though storms haven't been swallowing boats and destroying wards. Appearances can be deceiving. I learned that years ago.

My first stop is a fisherman named Caleb Dunn, whose vessel survived one of the earlier storms. Barely. I find him repairing nets beside the docks, and he glances up when I approach.

"Blackwater," Caleb says.

"Morning."

He ties off a knot and sets the net aside. "You looking for work?"

"Information."

Caleb groans. "That's usually worse."

I smile. "Probably."

He gestures toward an empty crate, and I sit. "Tell me about the storm that hit your vessel."

His expression immediately darkens. "The one that nearly sank us?"

"That's the one."

Caleb leans back. "We were halfway through our route when the weather turned."

"Where?"

"The eastern waters."

That catches my attention, though I keep my expression neutral. "What were you carrying?"

"Fish," he says, shrugging. "What else would I be carrying?"

Fair. "What happened after?"

"The storm drove us south," he says, his gaze drifting toward the harbor. "We barely made it back."

I ask several more questions before moving on. The next fisherman tells a similar story. Then another. Then another. By midday, my notebook contains more observations than answers, the common thread refusing to appear immediately. It takes several conversations before the pattern finally emerges.

I stare down at my notes, then read them again. The realization settles slowly. Interesting. Very interesting. Most of the vessels affected by recent storms share something in common—their routes, or more specifically, where their cargo ends up.

Eastern Shore Market.

I lean against a dock post and reread the names. The Sea Sparrow. The Coral Wind. The Tide Runner. Several others, all connected, all trading regularly through the eastern market. A knot forms in my stomach. That isn't enough to prove anything. It's enough to raise questions. Questions I intend to answer.

A familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. "Talking to yourself now?"