Drayco’s first morning in Cape Unity dawned with an overcast sky out his bedroom window, the meteorological equivalent of elevator music. Weather, yes, interesting, no. He must be insane to leave that comfortable sanctuary for a run in the cold, but he didn’t want to get out of the habit and have his muscles atrophy. The brain was like that, too—allow the frontal lobe to decondition, and before you knew it, senility crept in.
Pulling his favorite FBI sweatshirt over his chest, he inhaled two lungs full of frosty air and the scent of marsh mud, a combination of mud, fish, sea salt, and a hint of sulfur. He started along the sand-filled road away from the Lazy Crab, which the daylight revealed in its full glory. It was the sole English Tudor building in town, the reason Major Jepson bought
