The door creaked open, admitting a gust of salty Atlantic air and a young woman in a sharp, charcoal suit. She didn't look like she belonged in a place where the floorboards groaned under the weight of secrets. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on the slumped shoulders at the end of the bar.

Bob finally turned his head, his eyes bloodshot but sharp. "And what’s that?"

Bob sat at the far end of the mahogany bar, nursing a lukewarm scotch. He wasn't a tall man, but he carried a weight that made him seem to take up more space than he actually did. In this small coastal town, everyone knew Bob, but lately, everyone was asking the same question. “What about Bob?”

He walked out into the mist, leaving the folder untouched. The episode of his life as a victim was over; the finale was just beginning.

"I'm not 'most people,'" she said, placing a manila folder on the damp counter. "The board is meeting tomorrow. They’re deciding whether to bridge the gap or cut the cord. Everyone is talking about the numbers, the liability, the optics. But I’m the only one asking the question that matters."