Before long, the Narwhal comes into view. We chug up alongside it, and I pull myself together while Lucky jumps over to check if it’s taking on water (it’s not) and if the engine starts (it does). And Mr. Karras is shouting out commands about cutting away the mooring lines attached to the scorched pier. Then Lucky’s piloting the Narwhal back to the harbor with his mother, and I’m stuck following behind them on the tugboat with Mr. Karras and my mother, Medusa: bitter woman-turned-monster.

Night falls as we motor into the harbor, its twinkling lights reflected on the dark water. And when we reach the Karrases’ boatyard, mooring the tugboat on one side of their small pier, and I’m finally able to step foot on civilized ground again, I’m hurting from the things Mom and I didn’t say to each other, and I’m anxious because Lucky and I went from being as close as we could possibly be to completely separated without any closure.

“Maybe it’s best that everyone cools off right now,” Kat suggests to my mom as we all drag ourselves across the creaking boards of the boatyard pier. “Everyone’s tired and stressed. We can talk about all of this tomorrow after we’ve had some rest.”

“Agreed,” Mom says.

I glance at Lucky. A few of hours ago, we were blissed out in each other’s arms. Now he looks as if he’s been swimming in the harbor for hours. Bone-weary. Defeated. Lost.

That’s how I feel too. I want to reach out and hold him, tell him everything will be okay—and for him to tell me the same. But all I can do is watch his beleaguered face over my shoulder as my mother escorts me out of the boatyard, away from the Karrases.

Through the dark side alley, past his vintage Superhawk.

Across the bumpy street, setts steaming and slick with the recent rain.

But when we get to our historic building, instead of heading around back to the rickety staircase to our apartment, we both stop in front of the Nook and stare at the front door.

It’s dark inside the bookshop—it’s been closed for a couple of hours. But there’s always a light on Salty Sally the bookish mermaid that can be seen from the street. Right now, it’s also shining on a large poster that’s been plastered over our shop’s door.

A photograph I’d recognize anywhere.

I’m sure Mom does too.

It’s a life-size enlargement of my mother’s nude photo.

My pulse lurches and pounds in my temples.

Mom’s cry is anguished and broken. She slaps a hand over her mouth before quickly looking around the sidewalk. It’s empty now, but a car slows as it passes and the driver gawks.