The dock smelled like salt and engine oil and the particular warm-wood scent of boats that had been sitting in the sun since morning. Aurora walked it with a measured pace—not hurried, not reluctant. Just present. Just moving.
Her slides clicked against the wooden planking in a steady, unhurried rhythm. Behind her, the driver kept pace with her suitcase, its wheels catching briefly on the gaps between boards. Ahead, the dock opened into the full breadth of the marina—the water catching the afternoon light in long planes, the air carrying the particular brightness of a coastline in high summer.
She spotted the yacht before she spotted Ray.
It was the kind of vessel that didn't need introduction. White hull, tiered decks, the clean, muscular lines of something built to be both impressive and seaworthy. It sat at the end of the dock with the unhurried authority of an object that understood its own worth. She took it in once, catalogued it, and kept walking.
Then she found Ray.
