He stopped by the library because fishermen trust tide tables and the dead equally. Miss Kroll slid a folder across the desk without asking why. “You’re not the first to look,” she said, which is a librarian’s way of being kind.
Inside: clippings browned to the color of bad tea. Storm Takes Dredge Barge Off Bracken. Harbor Board Halts Salvage Amid Dispute. A grainy photo of a flat deck stacked with chain and anchors, a company name half-hidden by glare.
There were court notes too—paragraphs that smelled like wet stamps—arguing who owned what when the ocean stopped caring. The dates lined up with Maggie’s first winter, the one where the power went and the town found out who had woodstoves and who had stories.
Eli traced the map printed beside the articles, a dotted line near the shoals labeled simply: Last Position. The coordinates were close enough to make his skin tighten.
Miss Kroll added a photocopy from a notebook no one had officially borrowed. Skip the chain, someone had scrawled. Ring’s still on it.
He read it twice, felt foolish for checking his finger, then folded the papers into his jacket as if they might warm him on the water.
When he left, the librarian called after him, “Bring it back tomorrow.” He didn’t ask if she meant the folder or the man who’d walked in with a smaller shadow.
