The back of her shoulders were on fire, and she still hadn't moved.

Hazel Bancroft sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her bare feet pushed into the cool wet sand just below the tide line, and let the July sun bake her. She hadn't brought a hat. She hadn't brought sunscreen. There was a tube of SPF 50 sitting on her kitchen counter, put there specifically so she wouldn't forget it, and she had walked right past it on the way out the door. She didn't care. Her shoulders could burn. They were already burning - that dry, sharp kind, nothing like the warm, lazy summer burn she remembered from childhood. They had been burning for almost two hours and she hadn't moved and she wasn't going to move yet.

The Atlantic stretched out in front of her, that deep, saturated blue it turned on clear summer mornings, still and shimmering under the heat. She knew this view so well it was practically part of her own body - the long curve of Pelham Cove's shoreline, the lobster boats way out near the horizon, the old lighthouse on the eastern point that appeared in every tourist postcard of coastal Maine and had been in the background of her entire life. She had grown up on this beach. She had learned to swim here when she was six, and swim well by seven, and by eight she had been good enough that strangers stopped to watch. Her father had stood in the shallows calling encouragement until his voice went hoarse.

You're a sea creature, he'd always said. You didn't come from me and your mother. The ocean made you and forgot to give you back.

She pressed her chin down against her knees and breathed.

The Atlantic did nothing.

This was the thing she hadn't been able to admit out loud to anyone, not even to Josie Crane, who was her closest friend in this town and generally a safe person to admit things to: this beach, this water, this place that had always been her one reliable source of steadiness - it wasn't working today. She had been sitting here for almost two hours and the tight, pressured feeling behind her sternum had not loosened by even a fraction. She had tried breathing slowly. She had tried just sitting and letting the sounds do what they usually did. She had watched the waves come in and go out with the patient, indifferent rhythm that had soothed her through every bad thing that had ever happened to her, and it hadn't helped, and that frightened her a little.

If the ocean couldn't fix this, she didn't know what could.

A pelican coasted by low over the water, banking easily on the updraft from the surf. She watched it until it disappeared beyond the point.

Come on, she told herself. This is your place. You've been coming here since before you could walk. It's just a bad day.

It wasn't just a bad day. She knew that. But she kept trying the words anyway, the way you press a bruise when you already know it's going to hurt.

He would have known it wasn't a bad day either, she thought. Her father would have looked at her and known exactly what this was, and he would have sat down next to her on the sand and not said a single word until she was ready.

That was the thing about Douglas Bancroft, before everything else. He had known how to be quiet with someone.

His name had meant something in Pelham Cove for as long as Hazel could remember - not in a grand, political way, because her father had never been an ambitious man, not in the way that word usually meant. He'd been the harbormaster for sixteen years. He'd known every lobsterman and fishing captain by their first name, known which boats ran reliably and which ran hot, known the tidal charts the way other men knew their own phone numbers. He'd sat on the town council for eleven years, not because he'd campaigned for it but because people kept asking him to run and he'd kept saying yes, because he thought he could help. The Bancroft family had been in Pelham Cove since before it was incorporated. The name meant steadiness. It meant fair dealing. It meant the family that had been here longest and stayed most honestly.

Hazel had grown up proud of that.

She hadn't known, until she was twenty years old, that the name had been carrying a lie for three years.

The phone call from her mother had come on a Wednesday afternoon in October, while Hazel was sitting in the UMaine library with a half-eaten granola bar and a paper she was supposed to be writing on American labor history. She remembered the moment with the particular sharpness of things your brain preserves against your will - the study carrel, the scratched wooden surface of the desk, the fluorescent light that always flickered in the far corner. Her phone had buzzed and she'd answered without thinking, and then she'd been standing in the hallway with no memory of having walked there, hearing her mother's voice break apart into pieces that didn't assemble into anything coherent: federal investigators, harbor fund, shell company, corruption.

The charges were thorough. Her father had been skimming from public accounts for three years - grant money, harbor maintenance funds, a federal infrastructure award that was supposed to go to dock repairs. The prosecutors built a case he didn't seriously fight. He pleaded guilty eight months after the arrest, and the judge gave him four years.