Chapter 7

Emma’s POV

At five in the morning, Grayhaven Island was still shrouded in heavy sea fog.

The tide struck the weathered basalt breakwater with a deep, steady roar. Most of the houses were empty, faded relocation notices nailed across their doors and windows. Only a few dozen elderly fishing families on the eastern side refused to leave. Thin trails of smoke still rose from their roofs.

Wearing tall waterproof boots and carrying a heavy tripod and recording bag, I climbed the slippery, moss-covered steps toward the old weather station at the island’s highest point.

The wind hit my face with salty spray and scattered the hair across my forehead. For the first time in days, the tightness in my chest eased.

In the weather station’s courtyard, a tall man in a dark khaki work jacket crouched over a damp diesel generator, testing it with a multimeter. He wore metal-framed glasses, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing strong forearms.

At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. He adjusted his glasses and stood in surprise. “Ms. Bennett? I thought the supply boat wasn’t docking until this afternoon.”

He was Daniel Reed, a respected independent documentary producer and the founder of the Endangered Island Sounds Preservation Project. We had met once at an academic conference three years earlier. Last week, I had seen his recruitment post seeking specialists in audio restoration and field recording for Grayhaven Island. Before leaving the villa, I had emailed him.

“A speedboat was bringing supplies this morning, so I caught a ride.” I lowered the case from my shoulder and glanced at the modest equipment in the courtyard. “Mr. Reed, have you considered the terms I mentioned in my email?”

He wiped the oil from his hands and pointed toward a few old mixing consoles inside, giving a rueful smile. “To be honest, Ms. Bennett, this project is entirely independently funded. We don’t have enough left to pay you a salary. Having you here is more than I could have hoped for. There’s a room with a private bathroom on the east side of the second floor. I had it cleaned yesterday. But conditions are rough. We often have power restrictions after ten.”

“I don’t need a salary. Just room and board, a private workspace, joint credit for all original audio collected on Grayhaven, and the right to use it for academic research.” I opened my shockproof case, revealing the full set of high-end portable recording equipment. “I brought my own gear. I can start oral-history interviews and field recordings with the fishing families today.”

Daniel looked at the carefully maintained equipment. He didn’t ask a single question about my personal life or the gossip surrounding the Hayes Group. He simply held out his hand.

“Welcome to the Grayhaven Island Archive Station, Ms. Bennett. I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.”

Our handshake was brief and polite, with the easy understanding and clear boundaries of two professionals.

Adrian’s POV

The atmosphere in my office was suffocating.

Ethan stood in front of my desk, sweat beading on his forehead. “Mr. Hayes, we checked every hotel, resort, and studio Ms. Bennett regularly visits. There’s no record of her staying anywhere. We also discreetly contacted several of her old college friends. She hasn’t spoken to any of them. As for Grayhaven Island… reception is terrible. There’s only one old cell tower. She has a new number, and she’s using cash instead of electronic payments. Our people can’t pinpoint her location yet.”

I stood by the window, holding the diamond ring she had left behind. My eyes were bloodshot.

How could they fail to find one person?

For four years, everything about her life—her food, clothing, transportation, work, even her social circle—had been within the Hayes Group’s reach. I had always assumed she couldn’t manage without me. She was like a greenhouse flower. Even if she lost her temper and ran outside into the rain, she would come back on her own once it grew dark and cold.

But now she had stripped away every trace of being Mrs. Hayes and disappeared onto an isolated island where even the phone signal barely worked.

“Check every ferry schedule at the docks.” I closed my fist around the ring, my voice hoarse but still driven by the same stubborn need for control. “Cancel all my Thursday-afternoon meetings. Get a car ready for the airport. She’s hiding on an island because she thinks I neglected her these past few days. Once I go there myself and explain, she’ll come home.”

Before I finished, someone knocked urgently on the office door.

The vice president overseeing the IPO rushed in, pale-faced. “Mr. Hayes, you can’t leave! The regulators and the Copyright Office just issued a joint verification request. Someone has filed a formal complaint under their own name, alleging falsified ownership records for The Last Tide’s core historical materials. The review panel is demanding the original interview records, family authorizations, and physical master-tape identification numbers for all thirty-eight historical recordings within forty-eight hours. If we can’t provide them, the project will automatically fail Friday’s key-project assessment!”

I stopped in my tracks, my expression darkening.

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