The Undertow / Season 1, Episode 2
Fog of Secrets
Rena Okafor’s boots hit the wet deck of the Coast Guard cutter with a dull slap, the salt spray stinging her cheeks as she leaned over the rail. The fog hung thick over Pelican Bay, a gray shroud that turned the horizon into a smudge, and the air tasted of iron and damp rot. Below her, the water churned black and restless, slapping against the hull like a hand testing a door. She squinted into the haze, her breath catching on the cold, trying to make out the shape of the kayaks they’d towed back last night. The two tourists—college kids from Portland, barely twenty—sat slumped in the stern now, wrapped in thermal blankets, their eyes glassy and fixed on nothing. They hadn’t said a word since Nowak hauled them aboard, not even a shiver to show they felt the wind slicing through their soaked hoodies.
“You seein’ this, LT?” Nowak’s voice cut through the hum of the engine, low and tight, coming from behind her. He was crouched by the kids, his gloved hands hovering over the girl’s shoulder like he didn’t want to touch her. His breath fogged in the air, and the brim of his cap was dark with moisture. “They ain’t even blinkin’. I’ve seen hypothermia, but this—hell, this ain’t that.”
Rena turned her head just enough to catch his eye, her jaw tight. “They’re in shock. Keep ‘em warm till we hit the dock. Medics’ll sort it.” But her voice didn’t carry the weight she wanted, didn’t mask the itch crawling up her spine. She’d seen shock before, back in Galveston—eyes like empty windows after a boat flipped, mouths moving with no sound. This was different. The boy’s fingers twitched in his lap, not from cold, but like he was reaching for something just out of sight, something under the waterline her radar couldn’t pick up.
She straightened, the deck rolling under her as a wave nudged the cutter, and wiped the salt from her lips with the back of her hand. The fog pressed closer, dampening her uniform, seeping into the collar until her skin prickled. She could hear the gulls now, faint and sharp, their cries swallowed by the mist, and the smell of diesel mixed with something sour, like seaweed left to rot on the rocks. Her radio crackled at her hip, static spitting before a voice broke through—Dispatch, asking for an ETA. She unclipped it, her thumb hesitating over the button, because what was she supposed to say? Two kids fished out of the bay, alive but not right, staring like they’d seen the bottom of the ocean and brought something back in their heads?
“Five minutes to shore,” she muttered into the mic, her voice flat, then clipped it back. Nowak was still watching her, his brow creased under the cap, but he didn’t push. Good. She didn’t have answers, not yet, and the weight of last night’s call still sat heavy in her chest. She’d felt it when they found the kayaks drifting—something off, something pulling at her gut like a riptide. She’d ignored it then, chalked it up to nerves, to the stories she’d heard about this place before she transferred in. Three drownings every June, like clockwork. Always in June. She’d read the logs back at the station, yellowed pages in a binder that smelled of mildew, each report ending the same way: body recovered, cause unknown, tide suspected. Now, standing on this deck with the fog curling around her like fingers, she wasn’t so sure it was just stories.
The cutter’s engine growled as they neared the harbor, the outline of Pelican Bay’s pier cutting through the mist like a jagged tooth. Rena’s eyes flicked to the shore, to the cluster of weathered shacks and the neon flicker of the diner sign barely visible through the gray. The town looked smaller from out here, hunched against the cliffside, its clapboard houses stained with salt and time. She could just make out a figure on the pier—Hector Delgado, had to be, the old fisherman they called Hex. He was there every morning, perched on a crate with a thermos of coffee, staring out at the water like he was waiting for something to crawl up from the deep. She’d met him once, a week after she arrived, when he’d shuffled into the station to drop off a tip about a missing buoy. His eyes had been sharp then, cutting through her like he knew why she’d come, why she’d left Galveston behind. “June’s comin’,” he’d rasped, his voice like gravel under a boot. “You’ll see.”
She shook the memory off, her hand gripping the rail until the cold metal bit into her palm. The kayaks bumped against the cutter’s side as they slowed, and she heard Nowak mutter something under his breath—probably a curse, probably about her not listening when he’d said to leave the kids out there till they snapped out of it. She ignored him, her gaze dropping to the water again. It was too dark, too still now, even with the waves. Like it was holding its breath.
“LT,” Nowak called again, sharper this time, and she turned. He was standing now, one hand on the girl’s shoulder, the other pointing at her face. “Look at this. You gotta look.”
Rena crossed the deck in three strides, her boots slipping a fraction on the wet surface, and crouched beside him. The girl’s head was tilted back against the bench, her mouth slack, but her eyes—god, her eyes were wrong. The pupils were blown wide, black as oil slicks, but there was something moving in them, a shimmer, like light catching on water far down where it shouldn’t be. Rena’s stomach turned, the taste of salt bitter on her tongue, and she had to fight the urge to step back.
“What the hell—” she started, but the words caught, because the girl’s hand shot out, fast, grabbing Rena’s wrist. The grip was cold, wet, stronger than it should’ve been, and the girl’s lips moved, no sound at first, just a wheeze of air. Then, soft, barely there, like a whisper carried on the tide: “It’s still down there.”
Rena yanked her arm free, her heart slamming against her ribs, and stumbled back a step. The deck tilted under her, or maybe that was just her head spinning, the fog pressing in until it felt like it was inside her lungs. The girl’s eyes were on her still, unblinking, that shimmer flickering like a signal she couldn’t read. Nowak was staring too, his mouth half-open, and for a moment the only sound was the water lapping at the hull, steady, patient, waiting.
“Get ‘em below,” Rena snapped, her voice rougher than she meant, and turned away before Nowak could argue. She needed air, needed to think, but the fog wouldn’t let her. It clung to her face, damp and heavy, smelling of brine and something older, something that didn’t belong on the surface. The pier was closer now, the shape of Hex clearer—he was standing, not sitting, his hands braced on the railing, watching the cutter come in. She could feel his stare, even through the mist, and it made her skin crawl.
The engine cut as they slid into the dock, the sudden quiet jarring, broken only by the creak of wood and the slap of waves against the pilings. Rena moved to the gangway, her boots thudding on the deck, and felt the weight of the town settle over her as she stepped onto solid ground. The pier smelled of tar and fish guts, the planks slick underfoot, and the air was colder here, biting at her exposed skin. Hex didn’t move as she approached, just kept his eyes on the water behind her, his face weathered as the cliffs, lined with years of salt and grief.
“Trouble already,” he said, not a question, his voice low and rough like the drag of a net over stone. He didn’t look at her, just tilted his head toward the bay, where the fog was thinning just enough to show the black stretch of ocean beyond. “June’s early this year.”
Rena stopped a few feet away, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets to keep them from shaking. “Just a couple kids got caught in the current,” she said, keeping her tone even, though she could hear the edge in it, the lie. “They’re fine. Medics are on their way.”
Hex grunted, a sound that said he didn’t believe her, and finally turned his head. His eyes were pale, almost gray, like the sky before a storm, and they pinned her in place. “Fine don’t look like that,” he said, nodding toward the cutter, where Nowak was helping the boy down the gangway, the kid’s legs buckling under him like they didn’t remember how to walk. “You felt it, didn’t you? Out there. Somethin’ pullin’.”
She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to keep his ghost stories to himself, but her throat tightened instead. She could still feel the girl’s grip on her wrist, the cold seeping into her bones, and the memory of that whisper—it’s still down there—looped in her head like a broken recording. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” she said, but the words felt hollow, and Hex’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like he knew she was lying to herself.
“You will,” he said, turning back to the water, his hands tightening on the rail until his knuckles whitened. “It don’t let go easy.”
Rena stood there, the fog swirling around her, the damp soaking into her uniform until she felt it in her joints. She wanted to walk away, to get back to the station and bury herself in paperwork until the medics called with something rational, something she could log and file and forget. But her feet wouldn’t move, rooted to the slick wood of the pier, and her eyes kept drifting to the bay, to the dark water that seemed to watch her back. The gulls were louder now, their cries slicing through the mist, and beneath them, under the surface of the sound, she thought she heard something else—a low hum, a rhythm, like a pulse carried on the tide.
She turned her head, sharp, scanning the pier, but there was nothing, just Hex and the empty stretch of wood leading to shore. The hum faded, or maybe she’d imagined it, but the pressure in her chest didn’t ease. It grew, heavy as the fog, pressing down until every breath felt like a fight. She forced herself to move, to step past Hex toward the harbor office, her boots echoing on the planks, but the feeling followed her, clinging like wet sand.
The office door was warped from years of salt air, sticking as she shoved it open, and the smell of stale coffee and cigarette ash hit her like a wall. The radio on the desk crackled, half-tuned to the weather band, spitting out fragments of a forecast—high tide at 9:17, wind picking up, chance of squalls. She ignored it, dropping into the chair and pulling the logbook from the shelf, her hands steadier now with something to do. The pages were stiff, the ink faded on the older entries, but she flipped to last June, then the June before, her eyes scanning the names, the dates, the same damn pattern. Three drownings, always three, always in June. No explanations, just notes about the tide, the current, the bodies washing up with lungs full of salt.
Her finger stopped on a line from 1993, the handwriting shaky, different from the rest. Hector Delgado, Jr., age 19. Recovered near the deep channel. Cause undetermined. She stared at it, the name blurring as the hum came back, louder now, vibrating in her skull. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in, the air thick with the smell of the bay, and her hand tightened on the page until it crinkled.
Outside, the fog horn sounded, a long, mournful note that rolled over the town like a wave, and Rena’s head snapped up. Through the smudged window, she could see the pier, Hex still there, a dark shape against the gray, and beyond him, the water, endless and black, moving in a way that didn’t match the wind. It curled, slow and deliberate, and for a split second, she swore she saw something break the surface—just a ripple, just a shadow, gone before she could blink. Her breath caught, sharp and cold, and the logbook slipped from her hands, hitting the desk with a dull thud.
She didn’t move, couldn’t, her eyes locked on the bay, waiting for it to show itself again. The hum was still there, steady now, pulling at her like a current, and the taste of salt was back on her tongue, bitter and sharp. The radio crackled again, a voice cutting through the static—Nowak, calling from the dock, saying the medics were there, saying the kids were getting worse. She reached for the mic, her hand slow, heavy, but her gaze stayed on the water, on the spot where the ripple had been, and the pressure in her chest tightened into something like dread, something she couldn’t name but could feel, cold and deep, rising with the tide.
Rena’s fingers closed around the mic, the plastic slick under her palm, still cold from the night air that seeped through the station’s thin walls. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw by the salt she could still taste, as if she’d swallowed the ocean itself. “Nowak, I’m coming down. Hold tight.” She didn’t wait for his reply, didn’t want to hear the tremor she knew would be in his tone, the same one knotting her gut. Her boots hit the floor hard as she stood, the chair scraping back with a whine that echoed in the small office. The bay stared back at her through the window, glass streaked with grime and sea spray, and though the ripple was gone, the water still moved wrong—too smooth, too heavy, like it was holding something just beneath.
She grabbed her coat off the hook, the canvas stiff and damp, smelling of diesel and brine, and pushed out into the hall. The station was quiet, too quiet, the hum from earlier now a low pulse she felt more than heard, vibrating up through the soles of her feet. The fluorescent lights flickered as she passed, casting jagged shadows on the chipped linoleum, and every step toward the dock felt like wading through shallows, resistance pulling at her legs. She’d seen things go bad before—Galveston still woke her up some nights, the memory of a hand slipping from hers, the weight of a body she couldn’t hold—but this wasn’t that. This was heavier, older, like the bay itself was watching, waiting for her to misstep.
Outside, the air hit her like a slap, cold and wet, carrying the sharp tang of rotting kelp and something sourer, metallic, that clung to the back of her throat. The dock was a gray smear in the fog, the sodium lamps buzzing overhead, throwing weak pools of light that didn’t reach the water’s edge. Nowak was there, crouched beside the two kayakers, their neon jackets stark against the weathered planks. Medics hovered, gloved hands moving fast, but their faces were tight, mouths pressed into thin lines. One of the kids—a girl, maybe nineteen, her hair plastered to her face with sweat and salt—jerked under the blanket they’d draped over her, her eyes wide and glassy, staring past everyone into the dark. Her lips moved, no sound coming out, but Rena could see the shape of it, a word or a plea, over and over, like a chant. The boy beside her wasn’t moving at all, his chest rising too slow, too shallow, his skin the color of wet ash.
“Rena,” Nowak said, standing as she approached, his voice low, clipped. He was younger than her by a decade, still green enough to flinch at the bad calls, and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, like he didn’t trust them to stay still. “They’re not responding. Medics say hypothermic, but—” He cut off, glancing at the girl, then back to Rena, his jaw working. “It’s not just that. They keep… looking at the water. Like they’re waiting for something.”
Rena didn’t answer right away. She knelt beside the girl, the dock rough under her knee, splintered wood catching at her cargo pants. Up close, the kid’s face was a map of wrongness—pupils blown wide, veins standing out like blue threads under her skin, and that stare, fixed on the bay, unblinking even as Rena snapped her fingers an inch from her nose. “Hey,” she said, soft but firm, the way she’d talk to someone dangling off a ledge. “Look at me. You’re safe. You’re on land.” Nothing. Not a flicker. Just that wordless mouthing, lips chapped and split, and now Rena could hear it, a faint hiss under the lap of waves against the pilings, not a word at all but a sound, guttural and wet, like something dragged up from the deep.
Her stomach turned, a slow roll that had nothing to do with the rocking of the dock. She straightened, catching the eye of the lead medic, a guy she’d seen around town, wiry and graying, with a name patch that read CARSON. “What’s your read?” she asked, keeping her voice steady even as her pulse thudded hard in her throat.
Carson didn’t look at her, his hands busy with an IV line on the boy. “Core temp’s dropping faster than it should. No water in the lungs, no signs of submersion, but they’re acting like they’ve been under for hours. And this—” He gestured at the girl’s twitching, her silent chant. “Could be shock. Could be something else. We’re moving them to County, but I don’t like it. Feels off.”
“Off how?” Rena pressed, though she already knew she didn’t want the answer. The fog was thicker now, curling around the dock like fingers, damp on her skin, and the hum was back, louder, resonating in her chest.
Carson met her gaze finally, his eyes shadowed under the brim of his cap. “Like they’ve seen something they can’t unsee. Like they’re not all here.”
The words hung there, heavy as the air, and Rena felt them settle into her, cold and sharp, like a hook catching flesh. She turned away, looking out at the bay, the water a black mirror under the fog, and for a moment she swore she felt it look back. Nowak was beside her, his breath uneven, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Lieutenant, those kids… they weren’t just drifting when we found ‘em. They were paddling. Hard. Straight out, like they needed to get there. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She didn’t respond, couldn’t, her mind snagging on that image—two kids, fighting to go deeper, to go where the current would take them and not let go. Her hand went to the radio clipped at her hip, a reflex, grounding herself in the weight of it, the static hiss that cut through the quiet when she thumbed the button. She wanted to call in, to report this, to make it someone else’s problem, but she knew better. Pelican Bay was hers now, whether she’d asked for it or not, and whatever was pulling at these kids, at this town, wasn’t something you could hand off in a log entry.
“Get them loaded,” she told Carson, her tone flat, final. “I’ll follow up at the hospital. Nowak, you’re with me. We’re checking their kayaks, seeing if there’s anything—gear, notes, anything that tells us why they were out there.” She didn’t add what she was really thinking, didn’t say she was looking for a reason that wasn’t the bay itself, calling to them in a voice she couldn’t hear but could feel, down to her bones.
The kayaks were tied off at the far end of the dock, bobbing gently, their hulls slick with condensation. Rena moved toward them, the fog swallowing the medics’ voices behind her, the clatter of the stretcher fading into a muffled hum. The air was colder here, close to the water, biting at her exposed skin, and the smell was stronger, that sour-metal tang mixing with the usual rot of low tide. She crouched beside the first kayak, running a hand along the edge, the fiberglass rough under her fingers where salt had crusted into the scratches. Inside, there was nothing—just a paddle, a crumpled water bottle, a sodden map folded into the seat. But the map caught her eye, the paper soft and disintegrating, ink smeared but still legible in spots. She unfolded it carefully, her gloves sticking to the damp edges, and saw the route marked in red pen, a jagged line that didn’t follow the shore, didn’t loop back to safety. It went straight out, past the buoys, into the deep channel where the currents turned deadly even on calm days.
Her breath caught, a sharp hitch, and she glanced at Nowak, who was checking the other kayak, his face pale under the lamp glow. “They planned this,” she said, holding up the map, her voice tighter than she meant it to be. “They weren’t lost. They wanted to go out there.”
Nowak didn’t answer right away, his hands pausing on a life vest he’d pulled from the second kayak. When he did speak, his words came slow, like he was dragging them up from somewhere dark. “Lieutenant… there’s something here. In the vest pocket.” He held up a small plastic bag, sealed tight, the kind you’d use for a phone or keys. Inside was a scrap of paper, folded tight, and something else—something small and dark, glinting through the plastic like wet glass.
Rena took it from him, her fingers clumsy in the cold, the bag slick against her skin. She opened it, careful not to tear the contents, and pulled out the paper first. It was a note, handwritten, the ink smudged but clear enough to read under the weak light. Meet at the channel. Midnight. It’s waiting. No signature, no context, just those words, scrawled in a hurry, and below them, a crude drawing—a spiral, tight at the center, spreading out in uneven loops, like a whirlpool sketched by a trembling hand.
Her pulse kicked harder, a drumbeat against her ribs, and she forced herself to breathe, to focus on the other item in the bag. She tipped it into her palm, a small stone, smooth and black, heavier than it should have been for its size. It was cold, unnaturally so, chilling her skin through the glove, and when she turned it over, she saw faint scratches on the surface, lines that might have been random but felt… intentional, like marks made with purpose. The hum was louder now, buzzing in her ears, and she swore the stone pulsed once, just a faint throb, before going still.
“What the hell is that?” Nowak asked, leaning in, his voice rough with something that wasn’t just curiosity. His breath fogged in the air, quick and uneven, and she could see the whites of his eyes, too wide, reflecting the dock light.
“I don’t know,” she said, and it was the truth, but it felt like a lie, because whatever this was, it wasn’t nothing. It was tied to the channel, to the kids, to the way the water had rippled earlier, deliberate and wrong. She closed her fingers around the stone, the cold biting into her palm, and slipped it back into the bag, sealing it tight. “We’re taking this in. All of it. Map, note, everything. And we’re not talking about it until we know more.”
Nowak nodded, but his face said he didn’t agree, said he wanted to drop this and walk away, back to the station where the fog didn’t feel like it was pressing down on you, watching. Rena couldn’t blame him. She felt it too, the weight of it, the pull, like the bay was reaching for her, whispering in that hum she couldn’t shake. But she’d learned long ago that running from a bad call didn’t make it disappear—it just followed you, grew teeth in the dark.
They started back toward the station, the evidence bag heavy in her pocket, the map folded tight in her other hand. The fog was a wall now, so thick she could barely see Nowak a step ahead, his shape blurring into gray. The dock creaked under their weight, the sound swallowed by the slap of waves, and every few steps she glanced at the water, half-expecting to see that ripple again, that shadow breaking the surface. It didn’t come, but the feeling stayed, a prickle at the base of her neck, a certainty that something was there, just out of sight, pacing them through the mist.
They were almost to the ramp when she heard it—a sound that wasn’t the waves, wasn’t the wind, a low, keening wail that cut through the fog like a blade. It came from the direction of the pier, where Hex had been sitting earlier, and it wasn’t human, not quite, though it carried the shape of grief, of loss, dragged out into something raw and endless. Rena stopped, her boots skidding on the slick wood, and Nowak turned, his face a mask of confusion and something sharper, something like fear.
“What was that?” he hissed, his hand already on his radio, though he didn’t lift it, didn’t call out. He was waiting for her, waiting for her to say it was nothing, just the wind through the pilings, just a trick of the fog.
She couldn’t. The sound came again, louder, closer, a wail that curled into her chest and squeezed, and she knew, without knowing how, that it was tied to the stone in her pocket, to the note, to the kids who’d paddled out to meet something at midnight. Her hand went to the evidence bag, fingers brushing the plastic, and the cold seeped through again, sharper now, like a warning. The pier was a dark line in the fog, barely visible, but she could feel it, the weight of eyes on her, not from the water but from the end of that weathered stretch of wood, where Hex had been watching the bay all day, every day, for years.
“Stay here,” she told Nowak, her voice low, tight, the order coming before she’d fully decided to give it. “I’m checking it out.”
“Lieutenant—” he started, but she was already moving, her boots heavy on the dock, the fog closing around her like a shroud. The wail sounded again, fainter but no less piercing, and her heart slammed against her ribs, each beat a pull, a current, drawing her toward the pier, toward whatever was waiting there in the dark.
The fog clung to Rena’s skin, damp and cold, as if the air itself were trying to press her back, to keep her from the pier’s end. Each step forward dragged against an unseen weight, her boots scuffing on the salt-roughened wood, the sound swallowed by the murmur of the tide below. The wail lingered in her ears, a thread of sound that wouldn’t untangle, looping tighter with every breath. Her hand stayed on the evidence bag in her jacket pocket, the stone inside radiating a chill that bit into her palm through the plastic, like a splinter of ice that wouldn’t melt. She didn’t look back at Nowak—couldn’t afford to see the doubt in his eyes, or worse, the question she didn’t have an answer for. The pier stretched ahead, a skeletal arm reaching into the black, its edges frayed by years of storms, planks warped and slick underfoot. The fog was thicker here, a wet veil that tasted of brine, stinging her lips as she breathed it in.
She could just make out the shape at the far end, a hunched silhouette against the void of sea and sky. Hex. She knew it before she saw the details—the tilt of his shoulders, the way he perched like a gull on the railing, always watching, always waiting for something to surface that never would. The wail came again, softer now, but it wasn’t from him. It was deeper, under the pier, in the water, a sound that vibrated through the wood into the soles of her boots. Her pulse tripped, a hard stutter, and she slowed, her hand sliding to the flashlight at her belt. The beam cut through the fog in a weak, trembling line, catching the glint of rusted bolts and the pale underbelly of barnacles clinging to the pilings below. Nothing moved. Nothing she could see. But the feeling was there, a prickle at the base of her neck, like fingers brushing too close in the dark.
“Hex,” she called, her voice rough, fraying at the edges. It barely carried over the lap of the waves, but his head turned, slow, deliberate, like he’d been expecting her all along. He didn’t stand, didn’t shift from his spot, just watched as she closed the distance, her flashlight beam skittering over his face. His eyes were sunken, shadowed, the whites yellowed like old parchment, and his mouth was a tight line under a beard salted with gray. The air around him smelled of tobacco and damp wool, sharp against the ocean’s rot.
“Didn’t think you’d come out this far,” he said, his voice a low rasp, gravel over stone. “Not after a day like today.”
She stopped a few feet away, the flashlight dipping to the pier between them, illuminating the cracks where seaweed had lodged, dried and brittle like dead veins. “Heard something,” she said, keeping it short, her jaw tight. “You hear it too?”
Hex’s gaze slid past her, out to the bay, where the fog erased the line between water and air. “Always hearin’ somethin’ out here. Trick is knowin’ when to listen.” He tapped a gnarled finger against the railing, the sound dull, swallowed. “And when to walk away.”
Her grip on the flashlight tightened, the metal cold against her palm, slick with condensation. “Not my style, walking away. You know that.” The wail hadn’t come again, but the silence was worse, heavy, like the moment before a wave breaks. She shifted her weight, the pier creaking under her, and glanced down at the water through the gaps in the planks. Black as oil, it moved slow, lazy, but she could feel it, the pull beneath, the current that didn’t care how still the surface looked. “Those kids last night—someone knew they were out there. Someone saw. You’re here every damn day, Hex. You see everything.”
His laugh was a dry bark, sharp enough to cut through the fog. “See everything, huh? That what you think?” He turned his head fully now, eyes narrowing, pinning her where she stood. “I see the tide come in. I see it go out. I see folks like you, thinkin’ you can stop what’s been rollin’ since before any of us drew breath. But I don’t see everything, Lieutenant. Not even close.” He leaned forward, just enough that the shadow of his cap tipped over his face, darkening it further. “And you don’t wanna see what I don’t.”
Her chest tightened, a band of pressure that made each breath shallow. She wanted to push, to grab him by the collar and shake loose whatever he was holding back, but the way his hands gripped the railing, knuckles pale against the weathered wood, told her he’d break before he bent. She forced her voice steady, low. “I’m not here to play riddles. Two tourists, acting like they didn’t know their own names, paddling out in the middle of the night. Now I’ve got a stone with scratches on it that don’t look like any language I’ve ever seen, and a sound out here that’s—” She stopped, the word catching in her throat. Wrong. It was wrong, all of it, but saying it out loud felt like giving it weight, letting it settle into her bones.
Hex didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “Stone, huh?” His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, blending with the hiss of the tide. “Where’d you get somethin’ like that?”
“Found it,” she said, too quick, her fingers curling tighter around the bag in her pocket. The cold pulsed against her skin, a steady throb, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. “Washed up near where we pulled them in.”
He grunted, a sound that could’ve meant anything, and turned his gaze back to the water. “Things wash up all the time. Don’t mean you gotta keep ‘em.” There was a pause, long enough for the fog to settle deeper into her collar, chilling the back of her neck. Then he added, softer, “Some things belong back where they came from.”
Her throat burned, the salt air scraping it raw. She wanted to argue, to demand he spit out whatever he was circling, but the wail came again—faint, barely there, like a breath against her ear. Her flashlight snapped down, beam slicing through the gaps in the pier, catching nothing but the slow churn of water, the glint of something slick on the pilings, gone before she could focus. Her heart was a drum now, pounding hard enough to drown out the tide, and she took a step closer to the edge, peering down, the wood slick under her boots.
“Don’t,” Hex said, sharp, the first real edge in his tone. “You look too long, it looks back.”
She froze, her breath hitching, the beam of her light trembling on the water’s surface. Nothing. Just the black, endless shift of it, rippling like skin over muscle. But the feeling was there, stronger now, a tug in her gut, pulling her forward, down, like the current itself was reaching up through the pier to wrap around her ankles. She stepped back, fast, the movement jerky, and turned the flashlight on Hex again. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were locked on hers, steady, too steady, like he’d seen this before, seen her exact stumble.
“What’s down there?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, fraying at the ends.
He didn’t answer right away. Just kept looking at her, through her, until the silence stretched thin enough to snap. Then he said, “Nothin’ you can save. Nothin’ you can fight. June’s got its own rules, Lieutenant. Always has.” He pushed off the railing, slow, joints creaking louder than the pier, and stood, his shadow long and warped in the fog. “You keep that stone, you’re holdin’ onto a debt. Better to let it go before it pulls you under.”
Her mouth went dry, the taste of salt thick on her tongue. She wanted to call him crazy, to write it off as the ramblings of a man who’d stared at the sea too long, but the weight in her pocket, the cold seeping into her fingers, wouldn’t let her. She stood there, rooted, as Hex turned and started down the pier, his steps uneven, the sound of his boots fading into the fog. The wail didn’t come again, but the quiet was worse, a void that pressed against her eardrums, filling her head with the rhythm of her own pulse.
She didn’t follow him. Couldn’t. Her legs felt leaden, her boots stuck to the wood as if the tide had claimed them too. Her hand slipped into her pocket, closing around the evidence bag, the stone’s edges pressing through the plastic, sharp enough to hurt. She should throw it, right now, let it sink back into the black where it belonged. But her fingers wouldn’t open, wouldn’t let go. Not yet. Not until she knew.
The fog shifted, a slow curl of it brushing her cheek, cold as a whisper, and she turned back toward the shore, the pier’s end a dark smudge behind her. Nowak was waiting, a faint outline near the dock, his radio crackling static into the night. She moved toward him, each step heavier than the last, the weight in her pocket dragging like an anchor. She didn’t look back. Didn’t dare. But she felt it still, the pull, the gaze from beneath, following her all the way to solid ground.
By the time she reached Nowak, her breath was shallow, her hands trembling just enough that she shoved them into her jacket to hide it. He looked at her, brow furrowed, the question there but unspoken. “Anything?” he asked finally, voice low, careful.
She shook her head, the lie coming easy. “Just Hex. Same as always.” Her fingers brushed the bag again, the cold a steady ache now, spreading up her arm. She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not until she understood what she was carrying, what she’d chosen to hold onto.
“Come on,” she said, nodding toward the truck parked at the lot’s edge, its headlights cutting weak yellow streaks through the fog. “Shift’s over.” But as they walked, the sound of the tide followed, a low, ceaseless murmur, like a voice she couldn’t quite make out, promising things she didn’t want to hear. She climbed into the driver’s seat, the door slamming shut with a hollow thud, and gripped the wheel, her knuckles pale against the dark leather. The stone sat heavy in her pocket, a secret she couldn’t unchoose, a debt—as Hex had called it—that she’d already started to pay.
The engine growled to life, and she pulled out of the lot, the pier shrinking in the rearview, swallowed by the fog. But the feeling didn’t leave, didn’t fade with distance. It settled into her, cold and unyielding, a current she couldn’t swim against. June was here, and with it, the rules Hex had warned her about—rules she didn’t know, rules she couldn’t break without losing something. Or someone. Her gaze flicked to the mirror again, to the empty dark behind her, and for a moment, just a heartbeat, she thought she saw movement, a shadow too long, too thin, trailing in the mist. She blinked, and it was gone. But the weight remained, pressing against her ribs, a reminder that whatever she’d started tonight, whatever she’d taken from the water’s edge, it wasn’t done with her yet.