Wind blew my hair across my face as I walked down to the pier to confront the last man I had trusted. I didn’t know if he was going to be there, but all my sleuthing showed he fished off this pier on Saturday mornings so I figured I had a 50/50 shot, minimum.

The morning air felt clean and crisp but smelled of fish and wet metal. It reminded me of the boathouse I grew up in. He knew about those memories and he knew how much it hurt. I couldn’t realistically believe that he wouldn’t know I’d come for him. He must be looking over his shoulder. Prepared, waiting, for me.

Walking down the final set of stone steps, I noticed a shadowy figure at the end. It had to be him. My heart quickened and jolted my body. He might have been preparing but so have I. I stepped onto the wooden planked pier.