My elder sister ripped my work shirt open on the crowded deck of the Oakhaven Yacht Club right in front of six visiting Navy officers.
The sleek naval escort vehicle, its emergency beacon flashing a silent, urgent red, sped away from the Oakhaven Yacht Club pier. Admiral Kincaid was already a blur in the back seat, his crisp salute the last I saw of him.
The wind whipped at my torn shirt, the fabric flapping against my chest. My scars felt raw, exposed to the lingering, judgmental gazes of the Oakhaven townspeople.
Victoria stepped forward, her voice cutting through the sudden silence of the harbor.
“Don’t fall for this staged theatrics!” she called out, gesturing vaguely towards the retreating vehicle. “That was just an actor, folks. Caleb hired him.”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the small crowd. They shifted their weight, avoiding my eyes. My sister was good at this. She knew how to plant a seed of doubt, how to twist the truth into something ugly and believable.
“He’s trying to dodge his responsibilities,” Victoria continued, her voice rising. “He owes me forty-two hundred dollars in back lease charges. This whole spectacle? Just a pathetic attempt to avoid paying his debts.”
My father, Arthur, stood a few feet away. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. His shoulders were slumped, his face pale and drawn. He muttered something inaudible to Victoria, who simply nodded, a cold, satisfied look on her face.
Then, without another word, Arthur turned and walked away with Victoria, disappearing into the twilight. They didn’t look back.
The last of the townspeople dispersed, leaving me alone on the cold, wooden planks of the dock. The air smelled of salt and distant diesel fumes. My chest felt hollow, like the hull of a derelict boat.
I walked back towards my rented boat shed, the old wood groaning beneath my weight. The sound of the waves lapping against the pilings was usually a comfort, but tonight it felt like a mournful dirge.
A dark sedan was parked just beyond my property line. A man in a county sheriff’s uniform leaned against the driver’s side door, his arms crossed.
He straightened up as I approached, his hand already moving towards the notice tucked into his breast pocket.
“Caleb Dempsey?” he asked, his voice flat and official.
I nodded, bracing myself.
“I have a notice of intent to seize equipment from your workshop,” he said, holding out a single sheet of paper. “Effective immediately. Due to outstanding debts.”
My eyes scanned the document. It cited the same $4,200 Victoria had just screamed about. The ink was fresh, the seal official. Victoria hadn’t wasted a second.
The sheriff’s presence, the official notice, confirmed everything. Admiral Kincaid’s sudden, forced departure had left me completely exposed. Victoria had moved faster than a storm front, cutting off any chance I had to fight back.
I gripped the paper, the edges biting into my palm. The fight had only just begun.
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