Breakwater

The book had not been there before. Caleb was certain of that.

By the time he reached the shoreline, it was well past ten. The air gnawed his joints with a chill that ate at his soul. Above, dusk lingered, not quite night or day, like a dream he couldn’t wake from. He spotted the backpack right where the hiker had described it: twenty feet from the slough, half swallowed by silt. The book was another matter. It did not appear in any of the photographs, certainly not in the evidence log.

Small and leather-bound, it looked like the sort of thing you would get in a tourist shop. No title or obvious markings, only a tarnished silver clasp and thick pages. He flipped it open. Most of it was blank, but buried near the center, he found a handful of drawings.

The first two were the normal stuff a thirteen-year-old might draw, but the third made his scalp tighten: a man, face down in dark water, limbs splayed, hair drifting like a halo.

Caleb shivered. The drowning man looked exactly like Victor the morning they pulled him from the bay. Not a child’s idle sketch. But when had Wren ever truly been a child?

He turned the page, searching for more sketches, and felt the sharp sting of paper slicing through skin. The cut was shallow, but it was enough to burn. A drop of blood welled and hit the page. The book absorbed it as if it had been waiting.

Sucking at the wound, he flipped through the rest of the pages. All blank. Just warped paper and the faint scent of mildew.

He frowned and turned back to the drawings. Gone, with only a few smudges remaining. He wondered if he had only imagined them, and he reached out, brushing at the spot and smearing blood across the paper. The pages hissed and smoke curled up as he yelped and threw the book into the silt.

For a moment, he did not move. His eyes stayed fixed on the place where it landed. He needed to get back to the station and shake off this fog creeping into his head. The dusk, he told himself, was playing tricks, and a good dose of reality would do him well.

He keyed his radio. “Dispatch, I’ve located the backpack. Twenty feet east of the slough. Partially buried.”

“Copy. Marking coordinates. Any sign of the girl?”

“Negative.” Too fast.

A pause crackled on the line. “Understood. Anything else at the scene?”

He looked down at the book, half-sunken now, and his throat tightened. What if Wren had drawn that picture? What if she had seen these things with her own eyes? Reporting the book would unleash questions he was not ready to answer. Not until he spoke to her.

“Nothing of note. Heading back now. ETA twenty minutes.”

The transmission ended, and silence settled back around him. He should have logged it.

After bandaging his finger, he reached for the book once more. It felt almost warm in his hands. He opened it to the page where the sketches had been, but all he found were blank pages.

Caleb took a step back. Every protocol he knew told him to bag the damn thing and walk away. Let forensics handle it. But this was Wren. He had known her since she was a toddler tagging behind her mother at football games, all scraped knees and wide eyes. He was supposed to protect people like her.

He placed his figure where the image had been and the world shifted. Salt rushed into his mouth, followed by the stench of rot and brine. Water slammed around his chest and dragged him under. He thrashed, but his limbs were heavy.

Then, light. Flickering and pale. Through the water, he saw a rocky outcrop beside a tidepool, rimmed in forest, and recognized it immediately. The edge of Starrigavan Bay.

Locals knew the spot. A quiet patch just beyond the totem trail, where tourists snapped photos without knowing the history of the place. Wren’s mother used to take her there. He had seen the two of them once, kneeling together by the pools, counting anemones with their fingertips.

The light faded, and Caleb gasped. Cold air ripped into his lungs as he jolted awake. Sweat slicked his back as the mist curled across the ground. The book lay beside him.

His evidence was already supposed to be en route, but how could he explain this? How could he tell them that a book had placed a location directly into his mind?

Logic screamed at him to go back to the station, but something stronger rose beneath it. Instinct. The sense that whatever this was had shown him Wren. He could not ignore that, not again.

He climbed the embankment in long strides and threw himself into the cruiser. The road narrowed, branches arching overhead, and crowding his windshield. Shadows crept into the edges of his headlights as he glanced at the book beside him on the passenger seat.

Just before the trailhead, the gravel thinned, and Caleb veered off, right before the land opened toward the sea.

That was where he saw her. Curled at the edge of the tidepool, small and shivering.

She was almost thirteen now but looked much younger. All spindly limbs and dark hair with wide eyes set too large. A scatter of freckles dusted her nose, just enough to remind him she was not Aya.

Caleb stepped over the stones, his boots slick against the wet rock. Each movement was deliberate. Fog hovered over the tidepool, and Wren sat at its edge with her knees drawn to her chest. She wasn’t crying, but something in her posture made him think she ought to be. Her head lifted as he came closer, and her eyes locked onto him. Wild like a deer seconds before it bolts.

He crouched low, keeping his hands where she could see them. Inch by inch, he thought to himself as he crept forward. When he reached her, he extended his hand. No sudden moves. For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then she nodded, and her fingers slid into his.

Caleb drew her in and held her against his chest. Wren’s body shook, but she made no sound. He tried to offer something steady. When she pulled back to meet his gaze, her eyes were dry, as if fear had burned too long and left nothing behind. She was quiet as he guided her into the back seat.

“You okay, sweetie?” His voice stayed low.

A faint nod. She didn’t reach for the seatbelt, so he buckled it for her. The click felt too loud. Then he shut the door with care and moved back to the front.

As they made their way toward town, the headlights sliced through the fog hovering on the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror, but she had not moved.

“Was this your book?” Caleb lifted the book just enough for her to see it over the seat.

No response. Her eyes stayed fixed, staring straight through him. This night felt too much like the other one. She was older now, nearly thirteen, but her expression hadn’t changed. That same empty stare. He kept checking the rearview mirror, hoping for some flicker of life behind those glassy eyes.

She had been eight the last time they took this drive together. Aya’s death had been ruled accidental. A fall from the bluff near Harbor Point. No witnesses or hard evidence, but in Sitka, suspicions passed from mouth to mouth like family recipes, and everyone had a theory. Caleb had more than that. He had seen the bruises that told a different story, and heard the way Wren paused before answering, as if measuring what the truth would cost.

Still, he had done nothing.

Back then, he had just joined the department: twenty-four, cautious and green. Victor had already married Aya, and by the time the case cooled, Wren was back in his custody. On paper, Victor was her adoptive father. In her drawings, he was always something much darker.

Caleb’s grip tightened on the wheel. Somewhere in the trees, a raven called. He turned his attention back to the road just in time to catch movement.

It all happened so fast. He slammed the brakes, and the cruiser fishtailed, the wet gravel slipping beneath the tires. The seatbelt caught hard across his chest as they lurched to a stop. His heart hammered. There was something on the road.

It was tall. Easily six and a half feet and draped in matted hair that hung like seaweed. Humanoid, but wrong. Shoulders too wide and arms too long. Its eyes glinted with an oily reflection. For one breathless second, Caleb could swear it tilted its head, as if curious.

His breath came in short bursts. He closed his eyes and counted to three. When they opened them again, the road was empty.

“You okay?” he asked Wren.

No answer. She stared through the windshield; eyes fixed on something he could not see.

The rest of the drive passed without a word. Not much had been said to begin with, but now, even his own thoughts had gone quiet. This time, he could not fail her.

He pulled into the lot beside the station, headlights lighting up the weathered Sitka Police Department sign. The cruiser idled for a moment before he shut it off. He glanced at the book on the passenger seat and, without a word, slipped it into his backpack. Then he stepped out and walked around to open Wren’s door. She didn’t wait, just stood and followed him up the steps.

Chief Lawson was waiting at the top of the steps. She wore jeans and a department fleece. Beside her stood a tall woman with wind-burned cheeks and a laminated OCS badge on a worn lanyard.

“This is Mariah Redford,” Lawson said. “She’s Wren’s emergency foster placement. She’ll take her to the hospital for a full exam. The Office of Children’s Services and the State Troopers will be here first thing tomorrow.”

Caleb stepped forward. “I want to be there when they talk to her.”

Lawson’s expression shifted. “That is not likely. You’re too close, and chain of custody matters here. We can’t risk a compromise.”

“I understand,” he said, though he didn’t mean it.

“I’ll do what I can,” she added, her tone gentler now. “But I need you to let this part play out.”

His jaw clenched, and he nodded, eyes drifting to where Wren stood.

Mariah had kneeled beside her, and Wren didn’t resist. She let herself be led down the steps without incident. Caleb watched them disappear into a dark sedan.

“Go home,” Lawson said. “Get some sleep. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

She paused, studying him. “Caleb, just be grateful she’s safe.”

He wished he could. She was alive, but safe? That was a whole other thing. What had she endured, what had she seen, to end up back here folded into herself?

His thoughts pulled back to that first visit, right after Aya’s fall. It was a routine welfare check. Victor had answered, all stiff smiles and tight-lipped explanations. Wren had hovered in the hallway behind him, fingers clenched in the hem of her shirt. When Victor reached toward her, she flinched. All Caleb could do was file the report and follow protocol, doing nothing as she was placed back under that roof. Now Victor was dead. And Wren...

Caleb climbed into his old Jeep Cherokee and drove home. His apartment above the old bookstore was sparse. It had a few framed photos, a battered shelf, and his grandmother’s old blanket. The only personal thing he displayed was a small carved otter on the windowsill. He couldn’t remember where it came from, only that it belonged.

After dropping his backpack beside the couch, he let himself sink into the familiar cushions. The book was still inside the bag. He pulled it out and placed it on the coffee table. For a long moment, he just stared. Then he opened it.

He expected the pages to still be empty. For a moment, he thought his eyes were playing tricks, that the drawings had never vanished at all. But they were different now, as if they’d only sunk beneath the surface and had risen changed.

Like Victor.

The ripples around the body were darker, coiling into shadows he hadn’t noticed before. It lingered just below the surface, body half‑formed. Long strands of kelp or hair drifted from its head, brushing Victor’s feet. A drop of moisture rolled down the margin, though he couldn’t tell if it came from his skin or the page itself. Caleb pressed a fingertip to the damp spot. The air in the room turned thick. The light bent sideways. And then—

He was there. Salt stung his nose, and wind slapped at his face. His boots scraped against the ground as he staggered forward into the cold twilight. Gulls cried somewhere to his right, their voices harsh. Victor Calder stood just beyond the rocks. His stance was unsteady. Probably drunk. He shouted into the darkness; words smeared with alcohol and anger.

Farther up the dock, Wren ran.

Something shifted behind Victor. Tall, with joints bent the wrong way. The surface of its body shimmered. It opened its mouth, but nothing came out, then it turned to follow Wren.

Victor’s face was contorted with confusion. He seemed to see something just beyond Caleb’s frame of vision. Then his body stiffened and sagged. He stumbled, reaching for balance, and tipped backward into the water.

Ripples spread across the bay, and at the end of the dock, Wren stopped. Her face was unreadable, as if part of her had already understood what would happen. Then she looked towards the trees.

The moment broke.

Colors stretched, blurred, collapsed into one another, and the world tilted sideways. His eyes blinked open with a jolt. The apartment was dark, lit only by the glow of a streetlamp outside. His heart pounded as if he had just run a mile.

Had he just witnessed Vicor’s death? The book sat closed on the coffee table with no hint of what had passed.

**

Caleb did not remember falling asleep. One moment, he had been staring at the closed book; the next, he was drowning again, dragged beneath dark water while voices tore at his mind. Wren floated just beyond his reach, face obscured by shadow.

When he gasped awake, he was tangled in the blanket with sweat cooling on his back. Outside, morning light seeped through the window. His phone buzzed on the counter.

A message from Lawson: Questioning is at 10:45. Mariah okayed your being present, as an observer only. No interaction. You’ll get a separate debrief after.

Observer only. The words stung more than they should have. He paced and circled back to the coffee table and opened the book without thinking. The image on the page was him, not the jaded man he was now, but the bright 24-year-old in his freshly pressed uniform. Nearby, a child huddled in shadow, knees pulled to her chest, her face hidden.

When would he stop reliving that moment? The smell of whiskey. Victor’s voice down the hall. His own silence. In the drawing, his face was indistinct, just enough to be his and not his.

The graphite darkened, the shadows thick around the child as if swallowing her whole. His pulse spiked, and he slammed the book shut.

“Stop,” he said, voice breaking. “Just stop.”

When he opened it again, the image was gone.

***

When he reached the station, it was just before ten. He parked, climbed the steps, and found Chief Lawson waiting at the door.

“You are not to speak or intervene. Understood?”

He nodded. There was no reason for him to even be here, other than he was the one to find her. Lawson looked at him for a moment longer than necessary. Then she stepped aside, letting him pass.

He entered the corridor behind the one-way glass.

Inside the interview room, the girl sat alone at the table. Her posture was straight, her hands still. Overhead lights cast a pale wash across her features, sharpening the angles of her face. She looked older than she should have.

Caleb stood behind the glass; his gaze fixed on the interview room as if through a pane of still water. He didn’t shift his weight, or glance at the clock, or blink more than necessary. He felt no tension in his chest, no unease gathering at the base of his spine. Just the dull clarity of being present without being involved.

The girl glanced toward the glass, her expression unreadable in the sterile light. He didn’t wonder what she was thinking. Didn’t reach for comfort, or blame, or anything at all. There was only the scene before him, devoid of meaning. She sat. He watched. Nothing stirred, as if the moment had already happened long ago, and they were just the last ones left to notice.