It might have come from anywhere, she told herself. A boat fitting. A crate. A storm-torn railing. Yet the farther she walked, the more scraps of old metal she noticed caught between stones, hidden so well that only someone looking closely would have seen them at all.
That evening, she showed the bolt to Cal at the harbor office. He looked at it for only a second before telling her, “The sea throws out all sorts of rubbish.” But his voice had gone rough, and when she mentioned Mrs. Wren’s story, color drained from his face. It was clear she would get nothing more out of him.