He looked toward the harbor, where the luxury boats slept under blue deck lights like smug white animals. His hands curled around the wet rope. In that silent moment, Elias understood his life was not fading naturally. It was being stolen for entertainment.
Before the yachts came, Briarhook Cove had been the kind of place people missed only after leaving it. The cliffs were dark granite, the pines leaned over the water, and the harbor smelled of salt, diesel, wet rope, and honest work.