Nora nearly laughed then, though the sound came out brittle. Blackwater Cove had always dressed fear in old stories and superstition. If fog lingered too long, it meant something. If gulls screamed at night, it meant something else. The village had never been able to let the sea be itself.
But Maggie’s next words stopped her. A local boy had filmed the water at dawn, she said, and the clip had spread so quickly that by noon people were speaking of Thomas Hale again—Nora’s father, a fisherman, who had perished there eighteen years ago.