The rain in coastal Maine rarely fell straight down; it attacked from every vector at once, turning the harbor into a freezing labyrinth of gray water and weathered stone. My beat-up sedan tore through the slick, empty streets of Cape Elizabeth, and I could feel the burning thread linking my shoulder to the predator who had breached my perimeter tightening until it vibrated against my collarbone.
I didn't drive toward Landon’s shop. I didn't go back to the cottage. An instinct, ancient and entirely sub-conscious, routed me back to the exact place where my survival had begun—the Portland Commercial Fish Pier. Out there, hidden among the towering silhouettes of industrial cranes, stacks of shipping containers, and the heavy reek of brine, it was easy to dissolve. Or to take a final stand.
