Page 69 of Ship Outta Luck

“I know that,” she says, but her fingers smooth across the bag she pulled out, seeming to consider my words.

Words I actually believe. Words I need to be true. I’d done shit in the Marines, followed orders, been called a patriot. But there’s right and wrong, and as complex as I know people are, I also know the difference between the two.

I have to believe it’s true.

My gaze dips to the bag in her hand.

“What’s in it?” My therapist would call that deflection.

She opens her palm, upending the small, waxy bag, letting the contents fall into her hand. Bright metal glints in the sun,garish sprays of lime green glittering next to it. Two massive hooks protruding from the end and center.

“A fishing lure?”

“Looks like it,” she says. The lure glitters, the hooks sharp against the soft skin of her palm.

“Any chance you’re going to tell me what that means to you? Or are you going to keep that to yourself?”

She frowns, her forehead creasing. White teeth gnaw her lower lip, and when she looks up at me, my breath catches.

“I don’t know what it means. Fishing was his thing. I just went along for the ride and his company.”

My fingers brush her skin as I pick up the lure. The South Texas sun glints across the metal.

“Did he have any spots he took you to fish when you were little?” I lower my voice. “You know, since this beach was special to you both?” Carefully, I slip the lure back in the bag.

“Not that I remember. This—” She gestures around at the beach, the salt grass waving in the dunes behind us. “This was our special spot. We both knew I didn’t care about fishing. I always wanted to be under the water with them, not reeling them into the boat. That’s how I got into scuba and later, marine archaeology.” She smiles at the memory, and while there’s pain in it, in her eyes, there’s happiness too. “He always helped me work towards my dreams. Except, according to you, he was running drugs to make it happen.” Her humorless laugh echoes off the granite jetty.

“It doesn’t mean he was a bad father.”

“What?”

My sudden shift in subject must have caught her off guard, and I rock on my heels. “So he wasn’t perfect. He still loved you.”

Her eyes go watery, and she looks past my shoulder towards the ocean.

“Perfect?” That same brusque laugh sounds again. “Running drugs isn’t the same as not coming to my school play or staying late at work or something. Even if he was doing it for me—which he wasn’t.” She stops, clamming up. “It doesn’t matter. What I believe doesn’t matter. At this point, we just keep following the clues.”

My brows knit. An iridescent oyster shell catches my attention and I lean over, picking it up.

Running drugs for her? My brain snags on the phrase.

“Wait. What do you mean, for you?”

Her gaze slips back to mine.

She sighs, her eyes narrowing at something behind me.

“Say you’re right. Say he did this thing. Worked with the smugglers.” Her face screws up like the words hurt as they came out. “School is expensive. A PhD? Even with fellowships, still expensive. He sent me to archaeology camps in the summers, then scuba camps, and all the gear, you know.”

I turn that over in my head. It sounds true. She chews the inside of her cheek, the sun playing off the sharp curve of her cheekbone.

But it’s a lie. Every instinct says so.

“Okay.” My eyes never leave her face.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. You can tell me what you really meant when you’re ready.”

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