Five years after my divorce, my ex-husband raised a champagne glass at his younger brother’s luxury Charleston wedding and mocked the one wound he knew had nearly destroyed me.

The fog was rolling in thick off the Atlantic, blanketing the Cooper River terminal in a ghostly, silver shroud. The yellow warning beacons atop the container cranes blinked rhythmically through the mist, looking like the hollow eyes of ancient giants.

The screech of metal against metal echoed over the water as we roared through the security gates in Thomas’s truck.

Two Charleston harbor police cruisers were already there, blue and red strobe lights painting the wet asphalt in violent flashes. A group of longshoremen in high-visibility vests stood near the edge of the pier, shouting over the rumble of heavy diesel engines.

"Thomas! Eleanor!" shouted Chief Henderson, the port director, jogging toward us with a heavy waterproof flashlight. "It's a mess. A rogue tug—registered under a Panamanian flag—lost steering and sheared the stabilization cables on Dredge Twelve. The main channel is blocked. If we can't clear the wreckage before the morning tide at six A.M., the international container ships won't be able to enter the bay. They'll have to divert to Savannah. It'll cost us millions in demurrage penalties!"

"Where is Frank Miller?" Thomas demanded, ignoring the rain that had begun to mist his face.

Henderson hesitated, glancing nervously toward the maintenance warehouse at the far end of the pier. "He's inside. He locked himself in the control office. He won't let the engineers touch the automated winch controls. He says... he says he has an emergency stop order signed by a state judge."

"Wait here," Thomas told Henderson.

"I'm coming with you," I said firmly, grabbing Thomas's arm.

"Eleanor, Carter Montgomery might be in there. He’s cornered, and cornered rats bite."

"This is my harbor too, Thomas," I said, staring directly into his eyes without an ounce of hesitation. "And Frank was Lily’s friend. He needs to see who he's destroying."

Thomas looked at me for a single heartbeat, then nodded once. "Stay on my hip."

We crossed the slick, wet concrete of the pier, our boots splashing through puddles of oil and seawater. The corrugated metal door of the maintenance office was shut tight, but the yellow interior light shone through the reinforced wire glass.

Thomas didn't bother knocking. He kicked the heavy latch with the heel of his steel-toed work boot.

The lock gave way with a sickening crack of splintered pine and twisted metal. The door banged back against the wall, revealing the chaotic interior.

Papers were scattered everywhere. Computer monitors glowed with red system errors. Standing by the central console, clutching a heavy metal crowbar and a black external hard drive, was Frank Miller. He was soaked in sweat, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling violently.

And sitting casually on the edge of the supervisor's desk, holding a glowing cigar and a glass of bourbon, was Carter Montgomery.

"Well, well," Carter sneered, blowing a ring of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "The royal couple has arrived. Just in time to watch the ship sink."

"Get out of that chair, Carter," Thomas said, his voice dropping into a deadly, guttural rumble that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"Make me, Vance," Carter laughed, though his eyes betrayed his panic. "Frank here just executed a lawful mechanics' lien. Under state law, as a licensed port engineer, he has the right to freeze harbor operations if he suspects structural instability. DeWitt’s legal team filed the injunction twenty minutes ago. You’re done, Thomas. By seven o'clock, Vance Logistics will be default-listed on the New York Maritime Exchange. DeWitt buys your debt for fifty cents on the dollar, and I get my family’s money back."

I ignored Carter completely. I took two steps forward, looking straight at Frank Miller.

"Frank," I said softly.

The older man flinched, refusing to meet my eyes. He stared at his boots, tears beginning to track through the grease on his cheeks. "Don't, Eleanor. You don't know what they have on Toby. He’s just twenty-one. They said... Carter said they’d send men to his dorm room. They’d break his legs. They’d ruin his life."

"And what about Lily?" I asked, my voice cutting through the humid room like a scalpel. "What about the girl who brought you lemon squares every Friday afternoon? What about the man who gave you a job when no other yard on the East Coast would hire you after your shipyard injury?"

Frank choked on a sob, his knuckles whitening around the crowbar.

"Shut up, Eleanor!" Carter barked, jumping off the desk, his face contorting in rage. "Don't listen to her, Frank! Throw the main circuit breaker! Cut the power to the cranes, now!"

Carter lunged toward the master electrical cabinet on the wall.