Dock 14
At 5:30 AM, a thick, freezing mist rolled off the Atlantic Ocean, shrouding Boston Harbor in an ethereal white veil.
Dock 14 was an isolated pier surrounded by rusted shipping containers and towering gantry cranes. Moored at the end of the wooden slipway sat The Albatross—an eighty-foot luxury yacht, its twin diesel engines idling with a low, predatory rumble.
Patrick stood on the wet timber planks near the boarding ramp, wearing a heavy dark peacoat, his hands in his pockets. Behind him stood two burly crew members in maritime rain gear.
Through the fog, a single pair of headlights appeared at the end of the access road.
A silver sedan came to a halt fifty yards away. The engine shut off.
The driver’s side door opened. Claire stepped out into the biting morning air, wearing her beige knit sweater and jeans. She walked around the car, opened the rear door, and lifted Lily into her arms. Lily wore her pink puffer jacket, holding Barnaby tightly against her chest.
Patrick’s face broke into a victorious, arrogant grin. He took three steps forward, extending his arms.
"You made the smart choice, Claire," Patrick called out over the sound of the engines. "Bring her over. The notary is on board. We sign the release papers, and you go home in peace."
May you like
Claire stopped twenty paces away. She did not lower Lily. She did not look afraid.
"There is no notary on that boat, Patrick," Claire said, her voice cutting through the mist with absolute authority. "And there are no release papers."
