Chapter 9 - Michael’s Final Crossing

Adrian was charged.

Not only for the shooting.

The archive linked him to fraud.

Blackmail.

Obstruction.

Conspiracy.

The altered autopsy.

Michael’s poisoning.

And the deliberate medication switch that killed Julia.

Thomas survived.

The bullet missed an artery.

Rebecca spent three nights at the hospital.

Vincent visited once.

Then again.

Anna stayed in Maine.

But not alone anymore.

Vincent called.

At first every few days.

Then every day.

Some conversations lasted ten minutes.

Some two hours.

One morning, Henry called Vincent.

“I found something.”

Vincent met him at the harbor.

I went too.

By then, no one questioned it.

Henry carried a small metal case.

Recovered from the old ferry office.

Inside was Michael’s logbook.

Not the financial one.

Personal.

The last entry was dated three years earlier.

The week before he died.

Vincent read.

Anna wants me to call him.

I want to.

I am afraid my voice will reopen every road Adrian spent years watching.

I tell myself waiting protects Vincent.

I no longer know if that is true.

Vincent stopped.

Henry looked away.

The next page.

If I die before I see him, tell him this:

I did not stay away because he mattered too little.

I stayed away because he mattered more than my courage.

Vincent closed the book.

No one spoke.

Then Henry handed him one final page.

Folded separately.

A route.

Maine to Bellini Island.

Scheduled three years earlier.

Two passengers.

MICHAEL BELLINI.

ANNA COLE.

Vincent frowned.

“They were coming back.”

Henry nodded.

“Michael bought the tickets.”

“But they never used them.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Michael died the night before.”

Vincent stared at the old ticket.

Another crossing that never happened.

Another passenger list that ended before departure.

Henry looked toward the ferry.

“You want to finish it?”

Vincent looked at him.

“What?”

“The route.”

Vincent called Anna.

She arrived two hours later.

She saw the ticket.

Her face broke.

“I never knew he bought this.”

Henry handed it to her.

“He wanted to bring you home.”

Anna cried.

Vincent looked at the boat.

Then at his mother.

“Come on.”

They boarded.

No Rebecca.

No Thomas.

No Adrian.

No confrontation.

Just mother and son.

I stayed on the dock.

So did Henry.

That crossing belonged to them.

When they returned at sunset, Vincent looked different.

Not healed.

Not finished.

But lighter.

Rebecca was waiting near the parking lot.

She approached slowly.

Vincent looked at her.

“How’s your father?”

“Alive.”

“Good.”

She nodded.

Then held out her engagement ring.

Vincent stared.

“I thought you might want this.”

He took it.

Rebecca’s eyes filled.

“Is that goodbye?”

Vincent looked at the ring.

Then at her.

“The engagement is over.”

She nodded.

“And us?”

“I don’t know.”

She smiled sadly.

“That seems to be our answer.”

“For now.”

Rebecca looked toward Anna.

“She hates me?”

Vincent shook his head.

“No.”

“She should.”

“No.”

“She hates what happened.”

“Different thing.”

Rebecca looked at him.

“Can I apologize to her?”

“Ask her.”

Not me.

Rebecca understood.

Another choice returned to the person who owned it.

That evening, Anna and Rebecca sat on a bench near the harbor.

For nearly an hour.

Vincent did not listen.

Neither did I.

When Rebecca left, Anna came to Vincent.

“She told me everything.”

“And?”

“She is not her father.”

Vincent looked at the ring in his hand.

“I know.”

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Anna smiled faintly.

“Your father would have liked that answer.”