Chapter Twelve

The marina, at four o’clock on a grey afternoon in early December, had the particular hush of a place built for a season that had already ended. Most of the berths were shrink-wrapped for winter, white plastic taut over hulls like something waiting patiently to be unwrapped again in spring, and the chandlery had a CLOSED FOR THE SEASON sign turned in its door, the same sign, Callum noted absently, that had hung there every winter of his childhood, and the only sign of life on the whole stretch of pontoon was a light burning in the low cabin at the head of the charter dock, under a sign that read BRANNIGAN MARINE CHARTERS in the kind of understated navy-and-gold lettering that cost, Callum’s professional eye told him, considerably more than it had any right to look like it should.