By morning, the ferry office said there had been no passengers.
Mara stood at the counter while a printer hummed behind the clerk. A fresh manifest lay between them, its paper still warm. The space beneath Passenger names was blank. The clerk, who had introduced herself as June, slid the sheet forward with two fingers and waited for Mara to accept it.
“I watched someone get off,” Mara said.
June’s eyes went to the window. Outside, the harbor had returned to its ordinary colors: gray water, white boats, gulls arguing over a bin. The ferry sat at the far berth with its gangway raised. In daylight it looked too small to hold a secret.
“The crew made an unscheduled run to bring the boat in,” June said. “No tickets were sold.”
“That isn’t the same as no passengers.”
June took the manifest back. She squared its corners against the counter, once, twice. “If you have a question for the captain, he’ll be here after lunch.”
Mara knew a dismissal when she heard one. She thanked June and went out into the wind. Halfway across the lot, her phone vibrated. Her mother had called four times. Mara sent a message saying she was safe and would be back soon, then opened the photo she had taken at the dock. The frame was blurred by fog and her own unsteady hand. Eli stood in the foreground. Beyond him, on the gangway, was a green shape without a face.
She enlarged the image until the pixels became blocks. The coat might have belonged to anyone. The way its left sleeve hung empty at the cuff could not. Daniel had lost two fingertips to a winch when he was nineteen, and ever after he had pulled that sleeve over his hand in cold weather.
A car horn sounded. Eli leaned out of a truck stopped beside her. “You went to the office.”
“You knew I would.”
“I know what you think you saw.”
Mara held up the phone. Eli did not look at it. His grip tightened on the steering wheel instead. That told her more than a glance would have.
“Who changed the manifest?” she asked.
“Go see your mother.” He drove on before she could answer.
At the guesthouse, the amber window was dark. A handwritten sign on the door said Closed for repairs, though fresh footprints crossed the wet steps. Mara pressed her palm to the glass. In the hallway beyond, a stack of visitor cards sat on a narrow table. The top card was turned toward the door. Its name line held a single word: Daniel.