Chapter 24: Reid
The Vigil rocks softly in her berth as I finish checking the final switches. Power’s cut. Hatches sealed. Gear locked. We’re in.
She did well today—weather held just long enough for the whale sighting, the data’s good, the hull stayed dry.
Barely.
Still, it was too rough for someone new. Too wet. Too cold. Too fucking chaotic. She wouldn’t have lasted half the morning without vomiting or freezing.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Liam and Finn are stacking the last of the ropes when I step out of the cabin.
“Get out of here,” I say. “You’re done.”
Liam doesn’t argue. He looks like something that washed ashore. Finn hesitates. Which is never a good sign.
“You sure?” he asks, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “There’s still a mess up top.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
He studies me for a second, lips pressed tight. Then, because he never knows when to shut up, he opens them.
“It’s probably none of my business,” he says, “but Madeline? She’s not just book-smart. She actually cares. She’ll be good on the boat.”
I stay quiet.
“She’s green, yeah, but so were we. And she’s not afraid of the work. Might be worth giving her a real shot.”
I sigh. Rub the tension from the back of my neck.
Finn always sounds casual when he’s walking a line. But he’s testing me now. Seeing if there’s a crack in the wall.
“She’ll get her shot,” I say eventually. “Go home.”
He nods once. Knows he’s pushed far enough. He disappears down the dock after Liam, boots splashing in the slush left over from the waves.
I stare up at the Vigil. She’s covered in a thick salt coat, windows already crusting over, ropes stiff with sea.
Usually I’d make the boys clean it. But they’ve had enough for one day. And I’m not completely heartless.
Hard, sure. But not cruel.
They did good work. Not that I’ll ever tell them that.
I grab the stack of data printouts, the waterproof clipboard, the drone SIM card. Then I step off the boat and head toward the diner.
She’s still there.
Through the wide pane of glass, I can see her. Alone in the corner booth, papers scattered like she’s dissecting them with surgical precision. A notebook open. Her head bowed.
Her hair’s in that braid again. Messy now, like she ran a hand through it too many times. A few strands have slipped loose and curl around her jaw, catching the light from the diner’s overhead bulbs.
I should keep walking.
I don’t.
The bell above the door chimes when I step in. She doesn’t look up. Not right away.
She’s so focused. Brow furrowed. Lips slightly parted as she reads something intently. Pink. Soft. Distracting.
Too damn distracting.
I close the distance and drop the folder on the table.
That’s when she lifts her gaze.
Her eyes find me—and widen.
They trail over my soaked hoodie, the water dripping from the hem of my coat, the wind-flattened hair. Her mouth opens like she’s about to say something.
But then her expression hardens.
Her back straightens.
The eyes go from wide to narrowed.
Hostile.
Good.
Hostility, I can handle.
“You’ve been here this whole time?” I ask.
She blinks, and her voice is flat when she answers. “You told me to study the pages. So I did.”
Right. Of course she did.
I pull one sheet from the pile and hold it up. “What’s the key difference between last year’s sample and the one taken last week from the same sector?”
“Temperature shift. Almost two degrees higher this year.”
I raise my eyebrows. Flip to another page.
“And the change in salinity?”
“Matches the shift in temperature. Correlated with meltwater inflow from up north.”
Another page. This one trickier.
She answers before I even ask.
And then sits back with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in a perfect, unspoken challenge.
Do you want to keep doing this, or are we done?
A smirk tries to escape me.
Trouble.
That’s what she is.
Not the obvious kind. Not the loud kind, or the dramatic kind. No—she’s the worst kind.
The kind that doesn’t know she’s trouble. The kind that tries to hide behind neat ponytails and tight-lipped answers. The kind that looks like she should be safe.
But she isn’t.
And if Finn and Liam aren’t already circling her like goddamn puppies, I’ll eat my own boots.
I raise my hands. “Relax.”
She doesn’t.
Smart girl.
I slide the SIM card toward her. “Footage from today. Drone got decent coverage before we had to pull it.”
She eyes it cautiously. Then reaches for it.
“You have a laptop?”
She nods, pulls it out from her bag.
It’s a joke. A dented, plastic clunker with a peeling sticker and a fan so loud it could power a small city.
I make a face.
“Seriously? That thing still boots?”
“It works fine.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’ll get you a better one.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“Didn’t say you had to.”
Her lips press together again. A thousand things in her eyes. Not one of them spoken.
I sit.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
And then I talk her through what we saw—basic migration behavior, one tag ID we’ve tracked for nearly a decade, a few deviations from last year’s route.
I leave Jake out of it.
Because I don’t want to answer the questions she’ll ask when she learns he’s my brother.
Or why she didn’t meet him first.
She listens closely, barely blinking. Her fingers twitch toward her pen every so often, like she’s fighting the instinct to take notes.
As I speak, my gaze drops again.
Freckles.
Hair still damp at the ends.
A little wrinkle on her sleeve from where she’d been leaning into the table too hard.
She’s cold again. I can tell. She’s bundled in that same thick jacket, but the tip of her nose is pink and her shoulders are tight like she’s trying not to shiver.
Too soft for this place.
Too delicate for these waters.
But here she is.
Because she wants this.
I almost admire it.
Almost.
“If you want to get on the boat tomorrow,” I say finally, “I need you to assess this data tonight.”
She blinks. “All of it?”
“It’s part of the job.”
She huffs. “That’s… that’s a lot.”
I lean back. “Should’ve studied harder.”
It’s bait. I know it is.
She knows it too.
Her hands ball into fists on her lap. Her jaw locks. Her chin tips up like she’s holding herself back from telling me to go fuck myself.
Which would be fair.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. Why I’m pushing. She’s clearly competent. Smarter than most interns we’ve brought on. Probably more capable than I give her credit for.
But there’s something about her that makes me want to press all the buttons. Flip every switch.
Maybe I want her to crack.
Or maybe I want to see what happens when she doesn’t.