Chapter 27 - The Sunken Marina
The Saint Jude Marina sat decaying at the end of a winding salt-marsh road, twelve miles south of the town line. Decades ago, it had been a bustling harbor for private yachts and fishing charters, but economic downturns and coastal storms had reduced it to rusted tin sheds, creaking wooden piers, and rotting fiberglass hulls bobbing on murky black water.
Gabriel killed the headlights half a mile before the entrance, navigating by the pale glow of the dashboard and the intermittent flash of coastal lightning. The rain had softened into a relentless, icy drizzle.
"Amelia, stay down in the seat with Biscuit. Lock the doors from the inside," Gabriel instructed, keeping the engine running in neutral. "If you see any headlights coming down this lane, you honk the horn twice and hit the lock switch. Understand?"
Amelia nodded bravely, burying her small fingers into Biscuit’s thick golden fur. "Daddy, be careful. Mommy told me once that the water here is too deep."
Gabriel kissed her forehead. "I'll be right back. Five minutes."
Slipping his hand into his coat pocket around the heavy steel flashlight, Gabriel stepped out into the biting marsh air. The smell of brine, decaying seaweed, and rusted metal was overwhelming. He made his way down the central boardwalk, the timber boards groaning under his weight. At the far end of the dock stood a row of corrugated metal storage lockers used by long-term boat owners.
He searched the weathered numbering: *710... 712... 714.*
The padlock on Locker 714 was green with oxidation, but the brass key slid into the cylinder smoothly. With a stiff twist, the tumblers gave way with a satisfying *clack*.
Gabriel pulled the heavy roll-up door open. Dust and the smell of ancient motor oil billowed out. Inside, there was no boat.
Instead, the locker was furnished like a clandestine war room. A folding metal table stood in the center, illuminated by Gabriel’s flashlight beam. On the wall hung a corkboard covered in pinned bank statements, architectural schematics of Marlene’s sprawling estate, and black-and-white surveillance photographs of Marlene meeting with an elderly man in a dark three-piece suit.
Gabriel stepped closer, his jaw tightening. The man in the photos was Judge Arthur Vance—Gabriel’s own grandfather, who had supposedly died of a heart attack twenty years ago. But the date stamped on the corner of the photograph was barely four years old.
On the desk sat a heavy, fireproof lockbox. Beside it was a voice recorder with a cassette already loaded, and a legal dossier labeled: *THE ADOPTION FRAUD OF AMELIA VANCE.*
Gabriel felt the ground tilt beneath him. *Adoption fraud?*
Before he could touch the file, the sound of splintering wood echoed from the pier outside.
May you like
Gabriel spun around, clicking off his flashlight. Through the darkness, heavy footsteps were marching down the wooden dock—deliberate, steady, and accompanied by the metallic click of a semi-automatic handgun being chambered.
***
