floor.
Maeve climbed down and tested the chain outside through the window gap. Too thick to cut. But old brass and sea air had weakened one link near the lock. She needed leverage.
She took apart the bed frame, wedged one metal rail through the window bars, and worked the chain link against stone until her hands split and her shoulders burned. It took nearly an hour.
When the link finally snapped, the sound was almost delicate.
The door opened six inches before the warped floor stopped it.
Maeve pushed.
Nothing.
She backed up and slammed her shoulder into it.
Pain flashed white across her vision.
The door moved another inch.
Again.
Again.
On the fourth strike, she fell through into the rain.
The bridge was still half-covered, but the tide was retreating. Maeve staggered toward it and saw that the storm had torn away part of the railing. She had no flare, no radio, no beacon.
But she had a message.
Using a broken stone, she scratched marks into the remaining painted rail.
Three short. Two long. One short.
Not an official distress signal. An old training code from Commander Ellis, used for shoreline drills when radios failed. Most civilians would see random scratches.
Ellis would see Maeve.
If Ellis came looking.
That was the gamble.
Maeve crossed the bridge when the water dropped below her knees. Twice, waves hit hard enough to shove her sideways. Once, her foot slipped and her cheek struck the concrete edge, bright pain bursting through her face.
She kept hold of the brass chain.
She did not know why at first.
Later, she would understand. Some part of her needed to carry the thing meant to hold her in place.
On the mainland, the car was gone. The gravel track had flooded in places, and the woods were slick with rain. She walked until her legs felt separate from her body.
At midmorning, a county road crew found her near a washed-out culvert.
The younger worker nearly dropped his thermos when she stepped from the trees.
“My name is Maeve Callahan,” she said, her voice raw. “I need law enforcement, medical help, and Commander Dana Ellis at Coast Guard Station Port Renley. In that order.”
The workers wrapped her in a foil blanket and called it in.
At the clinic, a deputy asked whether she wanted to notify her husband.
Maeve almost laughed.
Instead, she said, “No. Let him keep planning.”
Commander Ellis arrived thirty-one minutes later, rain in her silver hair and fury in her eyes.
She stopped at the foot of Maeve’s exam bed.
For the first time, Maeve allowed herself to shake.
Ellis did not hug her immediately. She knew better. She looked at Maeve’s hands, the bruise, the salt-stained dress, the chain on the floor.
Then she said, “Tell me who did this.”
Maeve handed her the orange recorder.
“Listen first.”
Ellis listened without expression. Only once did her jaw move, when Aaron’s voice said, Your accident at sea will make everything easier.
When the recording ended, Ellis closed her hand around the device.
“Where is he now?”
“Planning my funeral.”
The deputy checked public notices and funeral home records. Aaron had moved quickly. A memorial service had been scheduled for the next morning. He had claimed Maeve’s mother
