The Patriarch

The Blackwood Estate sat on the highest point of the island, a Victorian monstrosity of black shingles and turret windows that looked like they were squinting against the wind.

Declan was led through a foyer that smelled of lemon polish and decay, up a grand staircase, and into a bedroom that felt more like a mausoleum. The curtains were drawn. An oxygen tank hissed rhythmically in the corner.

Judge Alistair Thorne lay in a massive four-poster bed. He was skeletal, his skin the color of parchment, but his eyes were sharp, glittering with a malice that cancer hadn't touched.

" The diver," Thorne wheezed. "You look terrible, Mr. Moore. The bottle has not been kind."

"I'm here about the debt," Declan said, standing at the foot of the bed. He refused to sit.

"The debt is a leash," Thorne corrected. "I yank it, you come. Simple."

Thorne coughed, a wet, rattling sound. He waved a hand at the nightstand, where a file lay.

"My granddaughter. Ivy. She is... difficult. Rebellious. Last night, she broke into my safe. She stole a hard drive. It contains sensitive family financials. Legacies I need to protect."

"Call the police," Declan said.

"We handle matters internally on Oakhaven," Thorne snapped. "She ran to the sea caves on the north point. She thinks she can hide there until the morning ferry. But she doesn't know the tides. The storm is pushing the surge. The caves will flood in two hours."

Declan looked at the window. The rain was lashing against the glass.

"You want me to retrieve the drive."

"I want you to retrieve the *girl*," Thorne hissed. "The drive is with her. But the girl is my blood. She’s trapped. The tide has already cut off the walking path. The only way in—and out—is through the sump. You were a search and rescue diver. The best in the state, before you decided to drink your breakfast."

"I don't have tanks," Declan said. "I don't have gear."

"We have equipment in the boathouse," Thorne said. "Standard commercial rig. You go in. You bring her out. You bring the drive. You do this, and the debt is gone. I wipe the slate. You leave this island a free man."

Declan looked at the dying old man. He smelled a rat. Rich men didn't hire washed-up drunks to save their heirs unless they wanted something expendable.

But then he thought of the prison cell waiting for him. And he thought of the girl, Ivy. Trapped in the dark, water rising. Just like the boy in the car.

"Show me the charts," Declan said.