He Threw Me Into the Sea to Get Rid of Me — But When He Opened the Safe, His Face Turned White

Part One: The Granite Coast

Port Clyde, Maine, was not a place for the faint of heart. It was a town carved from ancient granite and shaped by generations of stubborn, sea-hardened souls who understood that the Atlantic gave nothing freely. Every lobster pulled from a trap, every cod hauled over the gunwale, every dollar earned came at the cost of frozen fingers, aching backs, and the ever-present knowledge that the ocean was both provider and executioner.

The scent of the town was particular and permanent—low tide’s briny rot mixed with diesel fuel, creosote from the old pilings, and that sharp, clean smell of salt wind that never quite left your clothes or your hair. In summer, tourists would drive through on their way to Monhegan Island, snapping photos of the weathered boats and genuine working waterfront, treating it like a museum piece. But by October, when the wind turned cruel and the sea turned grey, Port Clyde belonged only to those who earned their living from it.

Sara Garrison had earned her place here twice over. First, when she’d married Michael Garrison fifteen years ago, arriving as an outsider from inland Massachusetts and slowly proving herself to a community that didn’t easily accept strangers. And second, when Michael’s heart had given out six months ago at age forty-two, leaving her a widow and the sole owner of Garrison Fisheries—and forcing her to prove herself all over again.

At forty, Sara had the kind of strength that didn’t announce itself. She was average height, solidly built from years of physical work, with sun-weathered skin and hands that bore the scars of fishing line, scaling knives, and engine grease. Her dark hair, streaked with premature grey, was always pulled back in a practical braid. She didn’t wear makeup to the docks. She didn’t smile unless she meant it. And she ran Garrison Fisheries with the same steady competence Michael had, making decisions based on decades of collective wisdom rather than ego or impulse.

The company Michael had built wasn’t massive by industry standards, but it was solid. Three boats: the Sea Serpent, a 42-foot lobster boat that had been Michael’s first vessel; the Northern Wind, a 58-foot trawler captained by old Sal Morrison; and the Atlantic Dawn, a newer gillnetter run by a quiet, capable man named Tom Chen. The business employed fifteen people directly and supported another dozen families indirectly through processing, bait supply, and maintenance work.

Michael had built it all from nothing, starting with a single rusty trawler he’d bought at auction when he was twenty-three, working eighteen-hour days, sleeping on the boat to save money, slowly building a reputation for honest dealing and quality fish. He’d been conservative with debt, aggressive with maintenance, and loyal to his crew. When he died—suddenly, clutching his chest on the dock after unloading a thousand pounds of cod—he’d left behind a company worth nearly two million dollars and a will that gave it all to Sara.

Not to his younger brother, Greg. To Sara.

That decision, made years before Michael’s death and never changed, had poisoned what little relationship existed between Sara and her brother-in-law. Greg Garrison was thirty-six, four years younger than Michael had been, and he’d spent most of his adult life believing he was owed something simply by virtue of sharing DNA with a successful man.

Greg had the Garrison looks—sandy hair, strong jaw, broad shoulders—but none of Michael’s substance. He’d drifted through his twenties and early thirties with a series of failed ventures: a boat tour company that folded after one season, a restaurant that lasted six months, a used boat dealership that ended when his business partner sued him for fraud. Through it all, Michael had employed him at Garrison Fisheries in various capacities—dock work, equipment maintenance, occasionally running one of the boats when they were short-handed.

“He’s family,” Michael would say when Sara questioned the wisdom of keeping Greg on payroll. “He’s my brother. I can’t just abandon him.”

“He’s dead weight,” Sara had argued more than once. “He doesn’t pull his share, and he undermines you with the crew.”

Michael would just shake his head, that sad, accepting look in his eyes. “He’s all the family I have, Sara. Our parents are gone. It’s just us. I have to try.”

But Michael’s death had removed any obligation Sara felt to continue that charity. She’d kept Greg employed at first, partly out of respect for Michael’s memory and partly because firing him immediately would have looked cruel. But his resentment, always present, had curdled into something darker and more dangerous.

The breaking point came on a grey Tuesday morning in October, five and a half months after Michael’s death.

The company’s small office was located in a weathered building near the commercial dock, all rough pine walls and practical furniture. Sara had called a meeting of the senior captains—Sal Morrison, Tom Chen, and Eddie Russo, who ran maintenance—to discuss the winter operating budget.

Greg had inserted himself into the meeting uninvited, bringing with him a folder of documents and an air of aggressive confidence that immediately set Sara on edge.

“We need to talk about the future,” he announced before anyone else could speak, spreading his papers across the table like a poker player revealing a winning hand. “The company is stagnating. We’re leaving money on the table.”

Sara leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, watching him with the patient wariness of someone observing a potentially dangerous animal. “What are you proposing, Greg?”

“Expansion,” he said, tapping a finger on a printout showing specifications for two deep-water fishing vessels. “We buy these boats—used, but solid—and we start hitting the offshore grounds. Tuna, swordfish, the high-value stuff. We could triple our revenue in two years.”

Sal Morrison, sixty-eight years old and built like a barrel, let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “With what money, Greg? Those boats cost a quarter million each, minimum. Plus crew, plus fuel, plus permits.”

“We leverage the business,” Greg said smoothly, like he’d rehearsed this. “Take out a loan against the company’s assets. The bank will do it. Michael was too conservative, too scared to take risks. That’s why we’re stuck running these little day boats while the real money is being made by guys willing to think big.”

The temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Tom Chen’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes had gone flat and cold. Eddie Russo was staring at Greg like he’d just suggested they burn the boats for insurance money. And Sal—Sal looked ready to throw Greg through the window.

Sara let the silence stretch for a long moment before speaking. “Michael wasn’t conservative, Greg. He was smart. He built this company from one boat to three without ever taking on debt he couldn’t service in a single season. He weathered storms, market crashes, regulatory changes, and equipment failures because he never overextended. He never gambled with other people’s livelihoods.”

“Yeah, and where did that get him?” Greg shot back, his voice rising. “Dead at forty-two from stress, leaving a company that’s worth maybe two million when it could be worth ten.”

The words hung in the air like smoke from a gun. Sara felt the other men shift uncomfortably. This was the thing about Greg—he always knew exactly where to stick the knife.

But Sara had been married to a fisherman for fifteen years. She knew how to weather storms.

“Michael died because he had an undiagnosed heart condition,” she said quietly, her voice level. “Not from stress. And this company employs fifteen families directly and supports dozens more indirectly. It’s profitable, stable, and sustainable. Your plan would put all of that at risk so you can chase tuna like you’re playing a slot machine.”

“I’m trying to help,” Greg protested, but his eyes told a different story.

“No,” Sara said, standing up. “You’re trying to turn a fishing company into a casino. And I’m saying no. This meeting is over.”

Greg’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. He looked around the table at the three captains, clearly hoping for support, but found only closed faces and crossed arms. The rejection was complete and public, and Sara saw in his eyes the exact moment something broke.

“This is what Michael gets for leaving the company to someone who thinks like a bookkeeper instead of a fisherman,” he snarled, gathering his papers with shaking hands. “You don’t belong here, Sara. You never did. You’re just a tourist who married in and got lucky.”

He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows. The four people left in the room sat in silence for a moment before Sal spoke.

“Captain,” he said—he’d started calling her Captain after Michael died, a deliberate signal to the rest of the crew about where his loyalty lay—”that boy’s got hate in him. Real hate. You need to be careful.”

Sara nodded slowly. “I know, Sal. Believe me, I know.”

But she didn’t know how right Sal was until it was almost too late.

Part Two: The Trap Is Set

That evening, Sara drove an hour south to Rockland, to the offices of Albright & Finch, Attorneys at Law. The firm occupied the second floor of a restored Victorian building overlooking the harbor, all brass fixtures and dark wood paneling that spoke of old money and older reputations.

Eleanor Albright met her in a private conference room. Eleanor was in her late fifties, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, with the kind of precise intelligence that made opposing counsel nervous. She’d handled Michael’s will and the transfer of the business to Sara, and over the past six months, she’d become something more than just a lawyer—she’d become a trusted advisor and, in a strange way, a friend.

“You sounded concerned on the phone,” Eleanor said as Sara settled into a leather chair. “What’s happened?”

Sara pulled a heavy document box from her bag and set it on the polished mahogany table between them. “Greg happened. He’s getting desperate. More importantly, he’s getting reckless. I think he might try something.”

Eleanor’s expression sharpened. “Try something how?”

“I don’t know exactly. But the way he looked at me today… Eleanor, I’ve seen that look before. In men who are about to do something stupid and violent because they think they’re owed something they’re not getting.”

“You think he’d actually hurt you?”

Sara was quiet for a moment, thinking about Greg’s eyes, about the naked hatred she’d seen there. “I think he’d hurt me if he thought he could get away with it and claim the business. Yes.”

Eleanor didn’t argue or tell her she was being paranoid. Instead, she pulled out a legal pad and a pen. “Then we need to protect you. And we need to protect Michael’s legacy. Walk me through what you’re thinking.”

For the next hour, they planned. Sara had brought the original documents—corporate charters, boat deeds, insurance policies, partnership agreements, financial records. Everything that proved ownership of Garrison Fisheries and its assets. She’d leave them with Eleanor for safekeeping. The office safe back in Port Clyde would hold only copies.

“If something happens to me,” Sara said carefully, “if I have an accident or disappear or anything suspicious… you need to act immediately. Contact the State Police. Contact Sal Morrison—he knows everyone in the fishing community, and they trust him. And make sure Greg doesn’t get anywhere near the company assets.”

Eleanor made notes, her face grim. “I’ll prepare emergency succession documents. We’ll name Sal as interim manager if you’re incapacitated. And I’ll draft a detailed memo outlining your suspicions about Greg. If anything happens, it’ll be on record immediately.”

“One more thing,” Sara said. “I want you to have security footage of the office. Specifically of anyone accessing the safe. Can we arrange that?”

“Easily. I know a discrete security company. We’ll have cameras installed by the weekend. If Greg tries anything, we’ll have him on film.”

As Sara drove back to Port Clyde that night, the Maine coast dark and wild beside her, she felt the weight of what she was doing. This was her brother-in-law, her late husband’s only sibling. Part of her wanted to believe she was wrong, that she was being paranoid, that grief and stress were making her see threats where none existed.

But the larger part of her—the part that had learned to read weather signs and tide patterns, the part that had survived in a male-dominated industry through pure competence and careful judgment—knew she was right.

Greg was going to make a move. And when he did, she needed to be ready.

The approach came two days later, on Thursday morning.

Sara was in the office going over fuel invoices when Greg walked in. His entire demeanor had changed. Gone was the angry, resentful man from the meeting. In his place was someone who looked almost… broken.

His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard. He moved slowly, like a man carrying a great weight. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost pleading.

“Sara, I… I need to apologize. For Tuesday. For everything I said.”

Sara set down her pen, watching him carefully. “Go on.”

“I’ve been angry. At Michael for dying, at you for having what I thought should be mine, at the whole damn world for being unfair.” He sank into a chair across from her desk, his shoulders slumped. “But that’s not your fault. And it’s not fair to you. Michael loved you. He wanted you to have the company. I need to accept that.”

It was a good performance. If Sara hadn’t spent the last two days planning for exactly this kind of approach, she might have believed it.

“I appreciate you saying that, Greg.”

“I was thinking,” he continued, looking up at her with an expression of careful vulnerability, “maybe we could do something together. To honor Michael. A memorial trip on the Sea Serpent, just the two of us. We could go out to the Monhegan shoals—that was his favorite spot, remember? We still have some of his ashes. We could scatter them there. It would be… closure. For both of us.”

Every instinct Sara had was screaming danger. This was the trap. This was the moment he’d been building toward.

But if she refused, he’d know she suspected. He’d change his approach, find another way, and next time she might not see it coming.

So she let her face soften, let a small smile touch her lips. “That’s a beautiful idea, Greg. Michael would like that.”

His relief was palpable and genuine. He’d expected resistance. “Really? You’ll come?”

“Of course. When were you thinking?”

“Tomorrow morning? Weather’s supposed to be decent. We could head out around eight, be back by early afternoon.”

“Tomorrow works,” Sara agreed. “I’ll meet you at the boat.”

After he left, she sat very still for a long moment, then picked up her phone and made a call.

Part Three: The Northern Pride

Sal Morrison’s voice answered on the second ring, gravelly and familiar. “Captain. What’s the word?”

“Sal, I need a favor. A big one.”

“Name it.”

Sara kept her voice casual, but chose every word with precision. “Greg and I are taking the Sea Serpent out tomorrow morning. Around eight. We’re heading toward the Monhegan shoals to scatter some of Michael’s ashes. Greg’s at the helm.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then: “Is that so.”

“Weather’s supposed to be decent, but you know how it can change out there. Might get choppy.”

“Might at that.”

“Would be good to know there’s a friendly face on the water. Just in case.”

Another pause, longer this time. Sal had known both Garrison brothers since they were boys. He’d taught Michael how to navigate by stars and read the water. He’d also watched Greg fail at everything he touched while blaming everyone else. He understood exactly what Sara was and wasn’t saying.

“Don’t you worry, Captain,” Sal said, and his voice carried a weight of absolute commitment. “My crew and I were planning on running some pots out that way tomorrow. We’ll be on the water. And we’ll be keeping a weather eye on you.”

“I appreciate that, Sal.”

“Sara,” he said, using her first name for the first time she could remember, “you be careful out there. Real careful. The sea’s one thing. But sometimes the things men do on the water are worse than any storm.”

“I know, Sal. That’s why I called you.”

That night, Sara couldn’t sleep. She lay in the bed she’d shared with Michael, staring at the ceiling, running through scenarios. Greg would try to kill her—she was certain of that now. The question was how, and whether Sal would be close enough to intervene.

She thought about calling Eleanor, about calling the police, about simply refusing to go. But she knew Greg would just find another opportunity, another approach. Better to face this on her terms, with her own contingencies in place.

At 3 AM, she got up and wrote a letter. She sealed it in an envelope addressed to Eleanor Albright and left it on her kitchen table with instructions for her neighbor to deliver it if Sara didn’t return by nightfall.

Then she dressed in layers—thermal underwear, jeans, a heavy wool sweater, her foul-weather gear. If she ended up in the water, those layers might buy her precious minutes. She pulled on her work boots, tied them tight, and headed down to the dock.

The Sea Serpent was waiting, its white hull ghostly in the pre-dawn darkness. Greg was already there, checking fuel and starting the engine. He looked up as she approached, and in the harsh light of the dock’s sodium lamps, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Morning,” he called out. “You ready for this?”

Sara climbed aboard, feeling the familiar shift of the deck beneath her feet. She’d been on this boat hundreds of times. She knew every inch of it.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said.

They cast off just as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east. The harbor was quiet—most of the fleet wouldn’t head out for another hour. Greg piloted them through the channel markers and out into open water, the Sea Serpent’s diesel engine settling into its steady thrum.

For the first hour, neither of them spoke much. Sara stood at the rail, watching the coastline recede, feeling the Atlantic swell beneath the hull. The water was grey and cold, matching the overcast sky. A storm was building somewhere to the east—she could feel it in the air pressure, see it in the way the clouds were moving.

Greg kept the boat on course toward the Monhegan shoals, a productive fishing ground about twelve miles offshore. It had indeed been Michael’s favorite spot, a place where the bottom topography created upwellings that drew baitfish and, consequently, the predators that fed on them.

As they approached the shoals, Greg cut the engine. The sudden silence was profound, filled only by the slap of waves against the hull and the cry of gulls overhead. They drifted, rising and falling with the swells.

Sara pulled the small urn containing Michael’s ashes from her bag. It was a simple brass container, holding perhaps a cup of grey ash—all that remained of a man who’d filled every room he entered with life and laughter.

She was about to say something, to speak some words of farewell to her husband, when Greg’s voice cut through the quiet.

“You know,” he said, and his tone had changed completely, “none of this should ever have been yours.”

Sara turned slowly to face him. The mask had finally fallen away. The grief, the reconciliation, the brotherhood—all of it had been theater. What stood before her now was pure, distilled hatred.

“Michael was weak,” Greg continued, his voice low and venomous. “He was sentimental. He let an outsider, a woman from inland who didn’t know bow from stern when she met him, take what should have gone to family. To blood.”

Sara didn’t plead. She didn’t show fear. She simply stood there, one hand on the urn, the other on the rail, and met his hateful gaze with cold contempt.

“He gave it to me because he trusted me,” she said quietly. “He knew I’d protect what he built. He knew I’d take care of the crew, the boats, the business. He knew you’d just sell it off piece by piece to fund whatever your next brilliant idea was.”

The truth of her words—the simple, unvarnished reality—seemed to break something inside him. His face contorted with rage.

“Let’s see who he trusts now,” Greg snarled.

He moved fast, faster than she’d expected. He crossed the deck in two strides and shoved her with all his strength. Sara was braced against the rail, but the force of his attack caught her off-balance. She felt herself tip backward, felt the awful moment of weightlessness, and then she was falling.

The Atlantic hit her like a fist of ice.

The shock of it drove the air from her lungs. She surfaced, gasping, her body already screaming from the cold. The water temperature was maybe fifty-two degrees—cold enough to kill in less than an hour even with her layers.

She heard Greg’s voice above the sound of her own ragged breathing. He was standing at the rail, looking down at her, his face a mask of triumph.

“Swim or die, sister-in-law!” he shouted, and there was genuine joy in his voice. “The company is finally mine!”

He ran to the helm, gunned the engine, and spun the wheel. The Sea Serpent’s stern swung around, its wake churning white, and then it was racing away, heading back toward Port Clyde at full throttle.

Leaving her alone in twelve miles of cold, grey Atlantic.

Part Four: The Northern Pride Arrives

Sara Garrison had lived on the Maine coast for fifteen years. She’d learned to swim in these waters, had pulled herself out of the surf more than once when a wave had knocked her off her feet while beach-combing. She was a strong swimmer.

But strong wasn’t enough out here.

The cold was immediate and all-consuming, a living predator that began sapping her strength from the first second. Her heart rate spiked, her breathing became rapid and shallow—classic cold shock response. She forced herself to control her breathing, to calm her racing heart, to think.

Michael’s face swam in her memory. Don’t panic, she could hear him saying, teaching her to handle emergencies. Panic kills faster than anything else on the water.

She kicked off her heavy work boots, feeling them sink away into the depths. Her wool sweater and thermal layers were heavy with water, dragging at her, but they were also providing crucial insulation. She began to tread water, conserving energy, trying to stay warm while she waited.

Because Sal was coming. He had to be coming.

The minutes crawled past. Her fingers and toes went numb first, then her hands and feet. She felt her core temperature dropping, felt her thoughts beginning to slow and scatter. Hypothermia was setting in.

A wave of black despair washed over her. What if Sal hadn’t understood? What if he’d been delayed? What if Greg had won after all, and she was going to die out here alone while he claimed everything Michael had built?

Then, like a prayer answered, she heard it.

The low, steady thrum of a diesel engine.

She turned in the water, searching, and there—cresting a swell perhaps three hundred yards away—was the broad, sturdy bow of the Northern Pride, Sal’s trawler. The most beautiful thing Sara had ever seen.

The boat came alongside with practiced precision. Sal was at the wheel, his face set in grim fury. His two crew members, both men who’d worked for Michael for years, reached down with hands as strong and weathered as old rope.

They hauled her from the water like she weighed nothing, pulled her over the gunwale and onto the deck. Someone wrapped her immediately in heavy wool blankets. Someone else was already making hot coffee. Sal was on the radio, calling the Coast Guard.

Sara’s teeth were chattering so hard she could barely speak. “H-how long?”

“Ten minutes,” Sal said, crouching beside her. “We were tracking you on radar. The second that bastard gunned his engine and headed back without you, we came running full throttle. Ten minutes, Captain. You were only in the water ten minutes.”

Ten minutes. It had felt like hours.

“We’ve got you now,” Sal’s first mate, a taciturn giant named Pete, said quietly. “And we’ve got him. Coast Guard’s meeting him at the dock. He’s done.”

Sara closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the blankets and the coffee slowly work its way back into her frozen limbs. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t beaten.

And Greg had just made the last mistake of his life.

Part Five: The Reckoning

Greg Garrison docked the Sea Serpent with hands that trembled—not from fear, but from exhilaration. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. Sara was dead, drowned in the Atlantic, and it would look like a tragic accident. A rogue wave, a terrible loss, a devastated brother-in-law who’d tried his best to save her.

The story was already formed in his mind, polished smooth. He stumbled onto the dock, his voice cracking as he called for help.

“Someone call the Coast Guard!” he shouted to the stunned dockworkers who came running. “Sara—she fell overboard! I circled for over an hour, but I couldn’t find her! The waves—oh God, the waves—she’s gone!”

He gave a frantic, heartbroken statement to the harbormaster, painted himself as the desperate rescuer who’d failed despite his best efforts. Then, while the harbormaster was calling the Coast Guard, Greg slipped away.

He drove straight to the Garrison Fisheries office, his heart pounding with triumph. It was midmorning now. The office was empty—everyone was out on the water. He used his key to let himself in, went straight to the back room where the old steel safe sat like a treasure chest.

His fingers trembled as he worked the combination. Michael had given it to him years ago, for emergencies. Well, this was an emergency—an emergency to claim what was rightfully his.

The heavy door swung open.

Greg peered inside, a smile already forming.

The smile died.

The safe was empty. Completely, utterly empty. No corporate charters. No deeds. No financial records. Nothing.

His triumph curdled into confusion, then disbelief, then dawning horror. Where was everything? Who had—

His phone rang, making him jump. Restricted number. He answered, his voice sharp. “What?”

“Mr. Garrison? This is Eleanor Albright, Sara’s attorney.”

His heart dropped into his stomach.

“I’ve just been informed of a terrible situation regarding your sister-in-law,” Eleanor’s voice was calm, professional, deadly. “Given the potential change in company leadership, we need to meet immediately. Can you be at my office in Rockland in one hour?”

This was it, he thought. The final formality before he claimed his inheritance. She wanted to hand over control. Of course she did—Sara was dead.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

He arrived at the law office fifty-five minutes later, straightened his tie, composed his face into an expression of appropriate grief. A young assistant led him to a formal conference room.

What he saw when the door opened stopped him cold.

At the head of the long mahogany table sat Sara Garrison. She was wrapped in a thick wool blanket, her hair still damp, her face pale. But her eyes—her eyes burned with an unholy fire that made his blood freeze.

Beside her sat Eleanor Albright, looking like a judge about to deliver a death sentence.

Across the table sat Sal Morrison and two of his crew members, their weathered faces set like stone, their eyes full of cold fury.

And in the corner, a court stenographer sat poised over her machine, fingers ready.

Greg’s world tilted.

“Thank you for coming, Greg,” Eleanor said, her voice like ice. “We’re in the process of taking sworn depositions from Mr. Morrison and his crew regarding this morning’s events. Specifically, regarding their rescue of my client from the Atlantic Ocean after you abandoned her approximately twelve miles offshore. We wanted to get your version of events on the record before turning everything over to the Maine State Police, who are on their way.”

Greg stared. Sara was alive. There were witnesses. It was over.

He tried to speak, to salvage something, but his carefully crafted story crumbled to dust. The stenographer’s fingers moved, capturing every second of his shocked silence.

Eleanor began asking questions—precise, surgical questions that dismantled his lies piece by piece. The three fishermen sat as immovable as granite, their presence a wall of testimony he couldn’t climb.

The conference room door opened. Two State Police troopers stepped inside.

“Gregory Garrison?” the first one said.

It was over.

As they cuffed him, Eleanor delivered the final blow. “And Greg? We have security footage of you entering the office and accessing the company safe thirty minutes after you abandoned Sara. Since you did so believing you were now the owner—after attempting to murder the actual owner—we’ll be adding felony burglary and attempted grand theft to the attempted murder charge.”

His legs nearly gave out. Multiple felonies. Life in prison. Everything gone.

The troopers led him away. Through the window, Greg could see Sara watching him go, her expression not triumphant, but simply… resolved.

Epilogue: The Captain’s Course

One week later, Sara Garrison stood at the helm of the Sea Serpent, alone on the water for the first time since the attack. The sky was brilliant blue, the sea calm and sparkling. She’d needed to do this—to reclaim this boat, this space, from what Greg had tried to make it.

The Northern Pride pulled alongside, and Sal grinned from his helm. “You alright out here, Captain?”

Sara smiled back—a genuine smile that reached her eyes for the first time in months. “I’m alright, Sal. Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime, Captain. That’s what crew does.”

She pushed the throttle forward, and the Sea Serpent surged ahead, cutting cleanly through the swells. She looked out at the vast Atlantic—the thing Greg had tried to use as a weapon against her.

But the sea hadn’t betrayed her. The sea was honest. Dangerous, yes, but honest in its dangers.

It was the land, and the people on it, where the real predators lurked.

Sara Garrison had survived them all. And now, as she steered toward open water, she knew with absolute certainty that she would continue to survive—and thrive—for years to come.

The sea was her legacy. And she was its master.