“I'll think about it,” River said, knowing he wouldn't follow through. Something about the letter felt too personal for police intervention.
Jake studied his face, clearly debating whether to push harder. “Promise me you'll be careful. Change your routine. Don't go places alone until we figure out who's behind this.”
“I'm always careful.”
“You're always competent. That's different.” Jake grabbed his mug and headed for the door. “And if you get more messages, call me immediately. Don't handle this alone.”
After Jake left, River tried to lose himself in familiar work rhythms, but the letter's words kept intruding. He found himself checking the harbor through his window more frequently than usual.
Dr. Amelia Reeves arrived for their weekly review, her presence filling the lab with comfortable authority. She examined River's latest data with careful attention.
“The restoration rates are exceeding projections,” she said, flipping through photographic documentation. “The kelp recovery is remarkable. You should be proud of this work.”
“Thanks.” River tried to match her enthusiasm, but his attention kept drifting to the desk drawer. “The ecosystem is more resilient than expected.”
Dr. Reeves studied his face with sharp perception. “Everything okay? You seem distracted.”
“Just thinking about the next phase.” River gestured toward charts mapping slow recovery across different coastline sections. “Some areas aren't responding as quickly.”
“That's normal variation. Ecological recovery isn't linear.” She fixed him with the direct gaze that had intimidated graduate students for decades. “But that's not what's bothering you, is it?”
River considered telling her about the letter, seeking rational perspective. But it felt too intimate, too potentially embarrassing.
“Personal stuff,” he said finally. “Nothing that affects the work.”
“Personal stuff affects everything if you let it.” Dr. Reeves gathered her materials. “Take time off if you need it. The ocean will still be here when you get back.”
After she left, River sat alone as afternoon faded toward evening, the letter's presence like physical weight. He'd built his life around predictable patterns and measurable phenomena, but the message had introduced mystery his scientific training couldn't process.
The rational response was clear: document the incident, report it, take precautions. But rationality felt inadequate when faced with words from someone who seemed to know him better than he knew himself.
The lighthouse cottage felt different when River returned that evening, as if the letter had changed his relationship with the space. The beacon's familiar rhythm seemed more intrusive. Hissanctuary had been compromised by knowledge that someone had been observing his private moments.
River spread the letter on his kitchen table under bright light, studying it with methodical attention. The paper was definitely aged.
But the content remained impossible. The writer knew about eating cereal from the box during research absorption. About talking to marine samples like colleagues. About guilt that drove unnecessary risks during storms.
River looked at the Submariner on his wrist, crystal fogged with accumulated moisture. The watch had been a gift for his father's twentieth Coast Guard anniversary, engraved with coordinates marking his first rescue. River had worn it daily since the funeral, unable to let go despite salt water slowly corroding the movement.
How could a stranger know the watch's significance? The way River touched it unconsciously when thinking about his father? The guilt that made him keep wearing it despite damage?
The phone rang while River was trying to convince himself to eat something that wasn't cereal. Sarah, right on schedule for her weekly “make sure River hasn't become a hermit” call. He thought about letting it ring, but she'd just keep calling back.
“Hey, Sarah.”
“You sound weird. What's wrong now?”
God, she was like a bloodhound for emotional distress. “Nothing's wrong. I'm fine.”
“Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England.” Sarah's voice had that mix of love and exasperation that meant she was settling in for a long conversation. “Talk to me. What's going on?”
“I'm not isolating, if that's what you're getting at.”
“I didn't say you were. But now that you mention it...” He could hear her moving around, probably doing dishes or grading papers while simultaneously psychoanalyzing her emotionallystunted brother. “When's the last time you talked to someone who wasn't Jake or Dr. Reeves?”
River looked at the letter sitting on his kitchen table. Did mysterious correspondence count? “I talk to people.”
“Sea urchins don't count.”
