She nodded. “Hewitt.” Said his name. Said it to his face. “Hewitt.” And all the burden that it carried rose up. The voices of the men around her, the smell of turkey and sweat, of stale urine and fresh cookies evaporated. Do you know what you’ve done? What’s been lost because of you? Do you know what you are? She saw herself grab him by the shoulders, shake him over and over. Heard herself demand answers. Heard herself yelling, I’m barely alive because of you! You bastard, you bastard. Why? Why?
But there in the mission, among the homeless and lost, facing the frail figure of Hewitt Wilcox Chappell Adair, why didn’t much matter anymore. There he was, hiding once again, with the surf washing up against the wreckage of his life; she stood silent.
Why not add Hewitt to a list that started with Walt Boudreau? It would be so easy; she was so tempted.
“Fresh strawberries and . . .” Trammell’s voice broke through the pounding in her ears. “Fresh strawberries . . .” The joys of life that she had found in his presence would be forever beyond her reach if she took the next step.
Hewitt rose from the stool, fumbling for his cane, flushed, unsteady. As he came toward her, she saw only her own inner monster. She had taken a half step back from the abyss, and knew she would never recover if she let herself descend into it again. No, she wanted—needed—to stay as far away from revenge as she could.
Justice, however, was another matter. She nodded at MacAuliffe, who stepped out of line to join her.
From the dining room, she heard his plea, “Martha, come back. Please, Martha. I didn’t mean for you . . .”
Martha and MacAuliffe walked out of the soup kitchen together. He said he’d get the car and she handed him her keys. Across the road, in the misty yellow ring of a streetlamp stood Detective Eric Metcalf, his long raincoat open and flapping against a tailored suit from the occasional gust of wind. The perfect knot on his silk tie hugged his throat.
“Got your message,” he said. “You find him?”
She nodded. As if to settle her doubts and reaffirm her decision, she nodded again. “Yeah, I found Adair. Hewitt, too. He’s inside handing out cookies.”
With that, she turned and walked away into the rainy night.
Acknowledgements
As always, there are so many people involved in bringing a book to fruition that it’s hard to know where to begin. If I’ve overlooked someone, please know it is my short-term memory problems, not a lack of appreciation for your contribution to making Out of the Cold Dark Sea a better book.
Profound thank yous are in order to many: To P. S. Duffy for the insights and detailed edits over multiple drafts. Every “Fix!” and “Cliché!” and “I don’t understand” made the book tighter, clearer and ultimately better. To Roxanne Dunn, who read every word of every draft and whose criticism helped identify the strengths and weaknesses of the story. God, how I loved to see those triple plus marks! To the Rochester Literary Guild, Dan Dietrich, P. S. Duffy, Debbie Lampi, and Shelley Mahannah, whose support, critical reviews, and unflagging belief that stories make the world a better place nourished and sustained me throughout the many years of bringing this book to print. Dan's frequent phone calls always provided encouragement, insights into the publishing experience, and wise counsel.
I would also like to thank editors William Boggess for identifying some of the fundamental problems of the book and offering detailed suggestions on how to fix them; and Anne Doe-Overstreet whose attention to detail found and fixed all the lingering problems overlooked by everyone else.
Thank you to the dozens of readers—family, friends, acquaintances and complete strangers. Every single one of you made an invaluable contribution to the book.
All errors that remain, whether small or large, are entirely mine, of course.
And finally, to Mary Jo, the love of my life, who has stood beside me through each step of this journey.
About the Author
Jeffrey D. Briggs, a writer and journalist, has been writing about the Seattle waterfront since he moved onto his sailboat thirty years ago. He now lives on land with his wife and dog and can often be found on the shores of Puget Sound, wondering what secrets lie hidden beneath those cold waters. Out of the Cold Dark Sea, his debut novel, is the first book in the Seattle Waterfront Mystery series.
Gaining exposure as an independent author relies mostly on word-of-mouth, so if you have the time and inclination, please consider leaving a short review wherever you can.
Visit www.jeffreydbriggs.com, and subscribe to receive email notices for updates on his blog, book reviews, the occasional recipe, and news and events. There, Jeffrey will soon be posting the first chapter of book two in the Seattle Waterfront Mystery series featuring Martha Whitaker, Within a Shadowed Forest.
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