By the time we step off the porch, the neighbors are already whispering like a living thing. Phones light up in hands. Somewhere on a loop a clip of last week’s dock shot is playing again, already a smear on everyone’s tongues. Dominic’s jaw is a cliff; his hand on my back is as steady as a benediction.
“Not tonight,” he says, low. “We go find the source.”
“Who do you think is behind it?” I ask. My voice trembles with a mix of fear and something darker — the electric urge to watch him work.
He doesn’t answer. He never does at first. He drives with a focus that makes me drunk: set jaw, white-knuckled grip, eyes like a soldier patrolling a ruin. We don’t talk; it’s a quiet made of plans.
He surprises me at the first turn. Instead of heading to a house or office, he pulls into the industr
