Chapter 22: Reid
The wind’s biting sharp out on the water, but it’s nothing The Vigil can’t handle. Jake’s got her humming steady, a clean cut against the current, the kind of early run that settles into your bones.
I climb the steel steps to the wheelhouse, the metal cold through my gloves. Jake stands at the helm, one hand braced on the throttle, the other pinning his phone to his ear as he mutters something to one of our partners. Fisheries maybe. Or that guy from the university who thinks barnacles deserve their own grant.
Outside the windshield, the coast has already blurred into a faint gray line behind us. The sea is open. Deep. Familiar.
Jake ends the call with a curt, “I’ll send the samples later,” and finally turns to me.
His mouth twitches — half smile, half exhaustion. “Shoal Ridge or Haddock’s?”
“Shoal,” I answer. “The current’s lifting too hard off Haddock’s edge. We’ll fight it the whole way.”
Jake adjusts the bearing and nods, already trusting the call. That’s the thing about my brother — he questions a lot, but when it comes to the water, we speak the same language.
He flicks the wiper switch once, clearing a streak of spray from the window, then glances sideways.
“So,” he says. “Where’s the new girl?”
I pause.
Jake looks at me fully now. “She didn’t get on?”
“No.”
A beat.
Jake frowns. “Why?”
“She’s not ready.”
His brows lift. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Based on what?”
“She was shaky on the dock,” I say flatly. “Didn’t have gear. Looked underdressed. Cold already. Wind’s high. Conditions aren’t bad now, but they’ll worsen by late morning.”
“She’s a biologist,” Jake says. “Not a damn deckhand. She’s not hauling buoys or running tie-downs.”
“She’s still on my boat,” I snap. “And if something goes wrong, I’m the one pulling her out of the water.”
Jake stares at me like he’s trying to see if I believe my own bullshit.
“She was vetted. Interviewed. Hired. Because we needed her. Not because we wanted a nice face around.”
I grit my teeth. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
“She’s not ready,” I repeat.
“You said that already.”
I don’t answer.
He exhales, the muscle in his jaw twitching once before he turns back to the console. “I’m short-staffed now. You realize that?”
“I’ll take the samples myself.”
“You’ll man the boat, run safety checks, manage the crew and take data logs?”
“If I have to.”
Jake mutters something under his breath — probably a curse, maybe my name — and punches a button on the nav system.
“I should’ve done her onboarding,” he says after a beat. “Would’ve made a better first impression.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But what’s done is done.”
“And when she walks?”
“She won’t.”
“And if she does?”
“Then she wasn’t meant to be here.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. Just pulls his ball cap lower over his brow and steadies the helm.
I leave before he tries again.
Down on deck, Liam and Finn are prepping the tagging gear, arguing over some busted clamp like it’s a political debate. I don’t interrupt — just pass by them to check the coils of rope stacked at the stern, the buoys tied and ready to drop. Everything’s tight. Everything’s holding.
I keep walking, boots heavy on the deck, until I reach the back rail.
The ocean stretches wide around us, the waves rolling like they have for centuries. But it’s not the water I’m looking at.
It’s the shore.
Or what’s left of it — a pale gray thread at the edge of the horizon. Somewhere down there, tucked into the curve of the harbor, is the diner. A tiny booth by the window. A cup of coffee going cold. And her.
Madeline Quinn.
I remember the look on her face when I told her no — not confusion, not defiance.
Shock.
And then something quieter.
She didn’t argue. Didn’t yell. Just nodded, turned away, and left. Proud. Controlled. Shoulders stiff like she’d locked something deep down and wasn’t going to let me see it.
It should’ve ended there.
But then she walked past the crowd on the wharf — the old men tightening lines, the teens loading gear — and never once looked back.
I did.
Just a flicker.
Just a moment where I watched her walk away with her head held high, even though I know I clipped her wings before she had the chance to open them.
And I hated that I noticed.
Her hands looked cold. Her braid was loose from the wind. She smelled like vanilla and hazelnut and something delicate I couldn’t name. And that expression — the one she wore like armor, like she’d been told “not yet” one too many times in her life and still showed up anyway.
The truth?
I took one look at her this morning and decided she wasn’t going on the boat.
Not because she’s weak. Not because she’s unqualified.
Because she looked like something the ocean would eat alive. She looked so damn small. So fucking fragile.
And I’ve watched that happen too many times.
But that’s not a good enough reason — not on paper, not to Jake, not to her.
So I said it was for safety.
For the crew.
For the project.
And maybe it was.
But maybe it was also because the moment she stepped onto the wharf, she made everything feel a little bit off.
And I don’t like things I can’t predict.
She’ll come on eventually. Tomorrow, maybe. Or next week.
She’ll take her samples. Do her work. Show us what she’s made of.
And maybe she’ll prove me wrong.
But not today.
Today, the ocean is mine. The boat is mine. The silence is mine.
And Madeline Quinn is not on board.