“You made it,” she whispered.
“No-show,” he said quietly. “Name of Kowalski. Booked four seats. Only three got on. You’re in.”
Now she was going alone.
The Yankee Freedom III ferry sat docked at the end of Margaret Street, its twin hulls gleaming white in the pre-dawn heat. Margo clutched her confirmation email like a winning lottery ticket. She’d woken up at 3 a.m. to book it exactly two months in advance, the moment the reservation window opened. The website had crashed twice. Her credit card had been declined because the bank thought it was fraud. But she’d persevered.
“Hang on,” he said.
“Margo Vasquez. Party of one.”
Margo almost dropped the wooden box.
The wind took the ashes instantly, swirling them over the gun deck, past the nesting frigatebirds, out toward the coral reefs her father had described in a letter he never mailed.