Chapter 21: Madeline
The wind is still vicious — sharp and loud — but something about the sun gleaming on the water dulls its teeth.
It sparkles. That’s the only word I can think of. Even with the cold snapping at my cheeks and my scarf pushed halfway into my mouth, I’m grinning like an idiot. The walk from the house to the wharf feels shorter today. Or maybe I’ve stopped noticing the distance. Maybe the sea pulls you in faster once it knows you’re not leaving.
Liam walks beside me, his long legs making the descent look effortless, despite the gusts that keep nudging us off-balance. There are people scattered across the docks, busy with morning prep — checking lines, testing motors, sipping from steaming mugs on the backs of boats. Seagulls caw from the roof of the old fish market and the air smells like diesel and brine and something almost sweet beneath it all, like someone’s making fresh bread in a kitchen nearby.
I breathe it in like I’ve never smelled anything so alive.
And then I hear it.
His voice.
“…we’ll shift east if the wind keeps lifting. Might be better to follow the secondary current down toward Shoal’s Cove. It’ll be choppier, but steadier.”
Reid.
He’s on The Vigil, crouched by the instrument panel, talking to Finn. His voice carries even over the wind — that low, clipped way he speaks when he’s in work mode. He doesn’t need to raise it. People just listen. I can’t help but slow down as I step closer to the edge of the dock, my eyes fixed on him before I even realize it.
Finn sees us first. His eyes light up and he gives me a wave, and I smile instinctively, about to return it — when Reid straightens, turns, and sees us too.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, sharp.
My smile falters. “It’s… my first day?”
He stares at me like I’ve told a joke and he’s waiting for the punchline.
“No,” he says simply.
I blink. “But yesterday, you said—”
“You’re not getting on the boat today.”
It’s a clean break. No emotion in his tone. No explanation.
I look between him and Finn, and then to Liam, who’s suddenly frowning hard.
“Wait—why not?” I ask, and I hate how my voice shakes.
Finn steps in quickly, like he senses I’m about to unravel. “It’s not that bad, Reid. I mean, yeah, it’s a rough start for her, but she'll experience worse this summer.”
“She can handle it,” Liam adds. “And we'll be there to make sure it's alright.”
What are they talking about?
“I want to go,” I say, trying again, stepping closer to the boat. “I’m ready. I’ve read everything. I—”
Reid cuts me off again. “Miss Quinn.”
The way he says it — not Madeline, not even Quinn, just Miss Quinn — makes me stop dead.
He walks closer to the railing and looks straight at me, not blinking.
“Do you make it a habit to be disobedient at work?”
I freeze. Every part of me stills, except my heartbeat — which takes off like it’s trying to leap out of my chest.
“No,” I say, quietly.
“Good,” he replies. “Then you’ll follow my instruction. You’re not going on the water today. You’ll stay back, review the materials Charlie gave you, and tonight, you’ll go through the data we collect. That’s how this works.”
I open my mouth to say something — I don’t even know what — but my throat burns and the words won’t come. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice people pausing on nearby boats. A woman tying ropes is pretending not to listen. Someone across the dock has stopped loading boxes onto a fishing skiff. I can feel the weight of their curiosity like a spotlight.
Reid turns his back before I can say anything else.
The conversation is over. Or it was never a conversation to begin with.
I force my face into something neutral, even though my skin is hot despite the wind.
Finn looks at me apologetically, Liam even more so. He takes a step like he might say something, but I beat him to it.
“I’ll see you guys later,” I murmur.
I don’t look back at Reid. I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.
I just walk.
Each step away from the boat feels harder than the one before. My fingers sting from the cold and my eyes burn from something that has nothing to do with the wind.
I don’t cry. Not really.
But I blink fast. And I don’t stop until I reach the diner.
The warmth hits me instantly — too much, too fast. My cheeks sting with it, my ears going hot as I slide into a booth by the window and drop my bag on the bench beside me.
I sit there for a few seconds, numb.
Then I unzip my bag and pull the papers out.
The same ones Charlie handed me two days ago. The same ones I’ve read and reread, underlined and highlighted, circled and memorized.
I lay them out on the table in front of me like they’re some kind of shield. Like if I can just know enough, be prepared enough, none of this will matter. But even as I spread them out, I feel the anger building under my skin — slow, searing, shameful.
This is my dream job.
And I’m not allowed to do it.
He said no. Just like that. No explanation, no trust. Like I was a child. Like I didn’t belong. Like I was something he needed to manage.
I don’t know how long I sit there before the waitress comes by. She’s middle-aged with tired eyes but a kind smile.
“Coffee?”
“Please,” I say, and my voice sounds foreign in my throat. “And… oatmeal. If it’s not too early.”
She nods and disappears behind the counter.
I stare at the table, the words on the page blurring. I know them by heart. What water temperatures are optimal for humpback feeding. How phytoplankton blooms can affect prey concentration. What behavioral markers suggest stress or migration patterns.
But none of it matters if I’m not allowed on the damn boat.
I rub my temples and lean back against the booth, trying to breathe. Trying not to cry in a small-town diner after being publicly dismissed by a man who probably thinks I’m a liability.
Outside the window, the sun glints off the water like shards of glass.
And then I see it.
The Vigil pulling away from the dock, its engine rumbling, stern cutting a clean path through the swell. Reid stands near the bow, one hand braced on the railing, head turned toward the horizon. The wind is still wild, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even lift his hood.
I watch them fade into the open water, the boat growing smaller with every passing second.
And for the first time since I got here, I wonder if I made a mistake coming.