For two days, Elias said nothing. He let the influencers keep filming. He let Lila Monroe pose beside his skiff in a borrowed yellow raincoat. He let a yacht owner complain that working boats ruined sunrise reflections. Quiet, he had learned, could sharpen a blade.
At night, he gathered what he needed from places tourists never visited: the bait shed, the old processing plant, Bram’s barn, Tess’s crab shack. Everything was lawful. Everything had a purpose. Everything smelled faintly of the part of the sea nobody put on postcards.