Chapter 6: What the Envelope Contained
Declan was back on the interstate before the sun cleared the horizon.
He called Ronan from the car.
"The dock," he said.
"Find out which one.
She booked a private charter under a Delaware shell company, fourteen months old.
Cross-reference any boat departures scheduled for tonight or early tomorrow."
"On it." Keys in the background.
"You went to see Marcus."
"I did."
"And?"
"She built the bomb plot herself.
Marcus was coerced." Declan kept his eyes on the road.
"She bl*ckmailed him with federal evidence she'd been holding for two years."
Ronan was quiet for a moment.
"Declan—"
"Find the dock."
"Yes."
He drove.
The city emerged from the dark in pieces — bridges, water, the gray industrial edge of the port district.
He thought about the evening he had sat beside her bed and read to her from a novel she had loved.
He had chosen it because the nurses said familiar voices sometimes helped.
He had sat there for two hours reading out loud to a woman who was listening to every word and choosing not to respond.
His phone buzzed.
Ronan.
"Pier 14.
Elliott Bay Marina.
Charter vessel registered as the Solano.
Departure window is 11 p.m.
tonight." A pause.
"She's already there, Declan.
My contact at the marina says a woman matching the description boarded two hours ago."
"Is Aris with her?"
"Unknown.
But there's a second name on the charter manifest.
A Dr.
Renata Solís.
I'm running her now."
"Do it fast." Declan took the exit toward the waterfront.
"And Ronan — I need someone at the marina who isn't connected to me.
Someone the harbor authority will listen to."
"I have a contact at the Coast Guard station.
Off the books."
"Use them."
He parked three blocks from the marina and walked the rest of the way.
The air smelled of salt and diesel.
The pier lights were on, casting long yellow reflections across the black water.
He found the Solano at the far end of Pier 14.
It was a 60-foot motor yacht, lights on in the cabin, engine running low.
A deckhand was coiling rope near the stern.
Declan walked past him without stopping and stepped aboard.
Camille was in the main cabin.
She was seated at the chart table with the envelope open in front of her and the USB drive connected to a laptop.
She was dressed for travel — dark coat, small bag, the kind of practical, anonymous clothing she had never worn in their marriage.
She heard him come in.
She did not turn around immediately.
She closed the laptop first.
Then she turned.
Her face did not collapse.
Her hands did not shake.
She looked at him the way a person looks at a problem they had hoped to avoid but had always known might arrive.
"You're early again," she said.
"Sit-down fell apart." Declan stepped into the cabin and pulled the door closed behind him.
"Same as last time."
"How much do you know?"
"Marcus told me about the car." He watched her face.
"He told me about the bl*ckmail.
He told me about the shell company and the transfers." He reached into his jacket and placed the folded document on the chart table beside the laptop.
"I know about the signature."
Camille looked at the document.
Something moved across her face — not guilt, exactly.
Something closer to calculation.
"Sit down, Declan."
"No."
"I'm not going to run." She gestured at the cabin.
"We're on a boat.
Where would I go." She folded her hands on the table.
"Ask me what you actually want to ask."
His voice came out very level.
"Did you want to leave me.
Or did you want to destroy me."
A silence settled over the cabin.
The engine hummed beneath them.
"Both," she said.
May you like
"In the beginning.
Both."
