Read Chapter 16: The Harbor Master

The harbor master’s office smelled of brine and cheap coffee. A laminated map of the bay dominated one wall, pockmarked with colored pins. Behind a cluttered desk, Jean-Pierre Le Guen looked up from a shipping manifest without surprise.

“Mademoiselle Le Goff,” he said. “And Monsieur Kerjean. I wondered when the two of you would darken my door.”

Camille kept her smile neutral. “We’re here about the houseboat mooring, Jean-Pierre. The permit’s up for renewal.”

“Is it?” He leaned back, the chair groaning. His face was weathered in the way of men who spent decades at sea—but his eyes belonged to an accountant. “I heard you were thinking of selling. Word travels.”

“Plans change.”

“They do.” Le Guen pulled a folder from a drawer, thick with forms. He set it on the desk but didn’t open it. “Though I also heard your father’s come back to town. Funny thing, that.” His gaze flicked between them. “Everyone thought Thomas Le Goff was dead.”

Camille’s pulse jumped. She kept her expression empty, an old skill from years of client meetings. “My father’s health is private.”

“Of course.” Le Guen’s mouth curved, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just—the timing. The research station break-in. The accusations against Keravel. And now you’re renewing a mooring for a boat that might not even be yours anymore.” He tapped the folder. “I’m a simple harbor master. I hear things. And I want you both to be careful.”

“Careful about what?” Yann asked. His voice was calm, but Camille felt the tension radiate off him.

Le Guen shrugged. “The sea can be dangerous, Monsieur Kerjean. Currents shift. Unmarked rocks. A boat that’s been through a storm…” He let the sentence hang. “People get hurt when they don’t watch where they’re sailing.”

The room was still. A radio crackled somewhere in the back office, a garbled weather forecast.

“Is that a threat?” Camille asked.

Le Guen laughed, hearty and hollow. “I’m the harbor master. I don’t make threats. I offer advice.” He slid a form across the desk. “Your mooring permit. Renewed through next spring. It’s already filled out.” He paused, adding almost gently. “For whatever use you’ll have for it.”

Camille took the paper. Her fingers brushed against the edge of her jacket where the USB drive sat in an inside pocket. She’d worn it against her body since Saint-Malo, the metal housing leaving a bruise on her ribs.

“We appreciate the help,” Yann said, rising.

“Naturally.” Le Guen’s eyes tracked them to the door. “Give my regards to your father, Mademoiselle Le Goff. Tell him the harbor keeps its secrets well.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

Outside, the wind off the water was sharp. Camille stood on the quay, gripping the permit so hard the paper creased. Yann put a hand on her elbow.

“He knows,” she whispered.

“He was fishing,” Yann said. “That’s all.”

“No.” She turned, meeting his eyes. “He knew. About my father. About the timing. That wasn’t fishing—that was a message.”

Yann studied her, his face unreadable. There were things she still hadn’t told him. The USB. The texts. The threat that mentioned her mother. The growing weight of every secret she was carrying.

“Your father’s not safe at the lighthouse,” he said.

“I know.”

“We need to move him.”

“He won’t move. He’s been hiding for months.” She stared across the harbor. The tide was going out, revealing barnacle-crusted hulls and slick black mud. “But I know someone who might be.”

The office was small and spare, the kind of place you found above a garage in a town no one visited. Patrick Le Goff—her father’s younger brother, who never spoke to anyone in the family after the inheritance dispute—looked at her from his plastic chair like she’d pulled a knife.

“You want me to do what?”

“Text the harbor master’s office,” Camille said, sliding forward. “With a rumor. Something he’ll report immediately.”

Patrick pushed back, chair legs scraping the floor. “Thirteen years we haven’t talked, Camille. Thirteen years, and you walk in here with this?”

“I know.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry. But I need you to post it. Say the tanker off the Pointe du Grouin has a leak. Oil slick moving north fast. That’s all.” She pulled a hundred euros from her wallet, set it on the desk. He didn’t look at it. “Send it anonymously. Or if you want to be hands-on, we’ll need you to hold your tongue.”

Patrick crossed his arms. “And if I tell you to leave?”

“You won’t.” She looked at her uncle’s stubborn jaw, saw her father’s face in it. “Because you know I’m not asking for myself.”

His eye twitched. A long silence stretched. Finally, he unscrewed the cap of an old thermos and poured himself a coffee, not offering her one. “Tell me what to say.”

Fifty minutes later, Camille sat across from Yann at the café on the Rue Saint-Vincent, nursing an espresso she couldn’t taste. On the table between them, her phone buzzed.

“The office? It went up on the forum.” Yann’s jaw was twice as tight as he scrolled. “There are six replies already.”

“From who?”

“Three boat owners confirming they’ve heard nothing.” He snorted. “And one from an account called ‘KÉVEL’—two months old. Zero posts before today.”

“That’s their burner,” Camille said. “Watching the channels.” She felt her pulse pick up. “Now we wait.”

She didn’t have to wait long.

The phone rang four minutes later. The screen showed an unknown number—the same unknown number that had texted her in Saint-Malo. When she answered, she didn’t speak.

“Mademoiselle Le Goff?” The voice was male and clipped. Professional. “This is Roland Durand, chief press officer for Keravel Marine. We’ve received reports of a potential incident near the Pointe du Grouin and wanted to confirm its veracity before issuing a statement.”

Camille met Yann’s eyes. She put the phone on speaker and set it between them on the table as if she’d let the call go naturally.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have information about an oil slick,” she said, letting her voice be puzzled. “Where did you hear that?”

There was a pause. She pictured it—Durand glancing at something out of frame, checking his notes. “We received an alert from the prefecture’s monitoring system.”

“The prefecture? That’s odd.” Her voice was light, performing. “I know you produce chemical components for aquaculture. I didn’t realize Keravel tracked coastal incidents at the Pointe du Grouin. That’s quite far from your facilities.”

Another pause. Longer this time. When Durand spoke again, his tone had hardened just slightly.

“We have a vested interest in the health of the bay, Mademoiselle Le Goff. Given your family’s history with—marine conservation—we wanted to ensure there was no confusion about our position.”

“My family’s history?”

“Your father worked with us for a long time. He understood the importance of preparation.” The voice was smooth now, self-satisfied. “We simply want to be proactive. If you hear anything about a spill, I trust you’ll reach out. We have resources for individuals who cooperate.”

Camille felt the whole conversation on a wire. He knows. He’s telling me he knows about Thomas.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and terminated the call.

The café was humming, Sunday chatter, espresso machines. Camille sat in that noise and watched the screen go dark.

Yann was staring at her. “They responded to a rumor—to a false alarm—within minutes. That’s not public interest. That’s surveillance.”

She nodded slowly. “He called me to tell me they know about my father.”

“He basically confirmed they’re watching.”

“He confirmed more than that.” The USB drive pressed against her ribs, a phantom weight. She thought of her father. She thought of her mother—of the sea and what it kept. She thought of the harbor master’s smile. “The prefecture has no rapid-response system for false alerts like that. Durand said he heard from them because he expected to be checked. But whoever he works for—the real surveillance, the one that tracked me to Saint-Malo—it’s not the prefecture.”

Yann leaned in, jaw tight. “Then who?”

The answer was already there, sitting in the hollow of her ribs like the USB drive—as close as a bruise.

“The same person who sent that text. Someone with enough reach to know I opened the deposit box.” She pressed her palms flat against the table. Someone who frightens a harbor master into playing along. Someone who kills pollution whistle-blowers’ mothers and calls it an accident.

She felt brave for the first time in weeks. The lies were becoming clear—like a fog burning off, pinning the shape of the woman who wrote Perrot’s margin note.

“It’s her,” Camille said. “It’s not Perrot running this. It’s the person above him. And they know I’m here.”

Yann didn’t ask her who “her” was. He steadied his own hands against the table’s edges. They sat in that café at the edge of the water, the tide beginning to rise.