Page 53 of Bind Me

Walking past buckets of cod and hake flopping about, I can’t help but feel a bit of a pang. I mean, people eat fish—fine, I get it—but seeing them like this, gasping for air, tugs at something in me.

I sense Chowder flipping around in my bag, which I assume is in response to the strong fish smell. Hopefully, he has some self-control, considering the huge meal he had for breakfast.

Passing two fishermen, their conversation catches my attention. My heart skips a beat, pausing by a stack of fish, pretending to be interested in them.

“All crew dead as doornails. Third one in town in as many weeks,” one of them says, his voice gruff, pausing me in my steps.

“Aye, I heard. Rumors sayin’ it’s them sirens turnin’ deadly. Anyone on the water ain’t safe no more,” another adds, shaking his head, his beard bobbing with the movement.

Sirens? Three attacks? My mind flashes back to the mistaken identity involving my mom, who eliminated seven men recently. Could it be her? Or is this something else entirely?

“Somethin’s changed in the waters,” the other agrees. “Heard a while ago of this happening farther north in the country.”

I feel a chill run over my skin. This isn’t normal siren behavior at all. As the men wander off, I travel down another busy dock, eyes scanning for my target while my mind’s hooked on the news I’d just heard.

Sirens don’t massacre groups of sailors like this. Maybe one here and there… So why are they acting this way?

How is my mom involved? I tell myself she’s no longer my mom, that she most likely won’t remember me, yet my chest tightens at the memory of the photo the authorities showed me of her killing those men.

The need to discover the truth billows inside me.

As I walk faster, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my gaze lands on a new ship recently docked. A group of men emerge, making their way down the wooden ramp, and behind them, an older woman follows. Blonde hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, a beauty spot above her lip, and she’s dressed in gum boots and jeans. She’s managing to look both stern and completely at home on the dock.

I stride over, putting on my most approachable smile.

“Hi there,” I start, hoping my cheerful tone will melt her ice-cold demeanor. “I’m doing a piece for a local journalist company about the fishing industry. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

She gives me a once-over, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, but her stare lingers on my face a bit too long, leaving me uncomfortable.

“Why do you want to know?” Her voice is as gruff as her expression.

“I’m trying to understand more about the local industry and some of the challenges you all face out here,” I lie, keeping my tone light and professional. “You know, for the readers.”

She crosses her arms, still scrutinizing me. “You don’t look like any journalist I’ve ever seen. What paper did you say you’re with?”

“Uh, the Fjord Times,” I reply, hoping it sounds credible enough. “We’re doing a special series on the impact of recent events on the local fisheries. Along with a rumor spreading that…” I glance around me to see if anyone is nearby, mostly for effect. “There’s a siren attacking sailors, killing them.”

In the meantime, Chowder’s rummaging about in my backpack, and suddenly, his head pops up, making a tiny chirp as though he’s coming up for air. Being super dramatic.

The woman’s attention flips to the bag over my shoulder, her eyes landing on Chowder.

“Cute otter,” she mutters, feigning more interest in him than answering my questions.

“Yeah, he’s my partner in crime for the day,” I joke, trying to keep the conversation light, not wanting Chowder to start talking and draw more attention to himself, considering his background. “Okay, Chowder, back to your nap.” I reach over, nudging him back inside, which he does, thankfully.

When she glances at me again, her eyes narrow, and she stares at me longer than feels comfortable. There’s a flicker of recognition—or maybe suspicion—crossing her face, making me uneasy.

“Look, I’d caution you against following rumors from sailors. Best you don’t get involved where you don’t belong,” she states, her tone heavy with implication. “Some things are better left uncovered.”

Not waiting for me to respond, she turns on her heel and marches away, leaving me blinking after her, my radar going off the charts. That woman knows something.

As I watch her stride away, I turn my attention to the ship where the men she was with are carrying closed boxes off the ship, taking them straight to the back of a van. They’re not selling their catch at the small market by the shore like others.

I stroll over to another dock, my mind racing about her standoffish behavior. Of course, it could be that she hates journalists sticking their noses in her business. Most people despise them.

As I approach, I catch sight of my target in the distance, a wiry guy with a perpetual scowl etched on his face unloading boxes off a boat. I slide behind a group of men, trying to blend in. The last thing I need is for him to suspect I’m here checking on him and bail.

The older woman’s warning echoes in my mind. Something feels off about the whole thing, and I decide I need to dive into some research. In particular on the north shore of Norway.

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