As a military veteran you’d think Francisco (Frankie to his friends) would have something to show for it. Unfortunately that isn’t the case. With little left after a gruelling divorce, Frankie decided enough was enough. He wanted a fresh start. Luckily his estranged, and rather…nutty uncle Antonio left his his old boathouse up north on the coast. Along with Ruben the elderly German Shepherd. The sea air should be more than enough to hopefully clear his head and get him back on track.

His flight was long, and being stuck in front of a screaming child kicking his seat didn’t make for a fun experience at all. The lack of leg room, bumping his head on the overhead lockers, and burning his tongue on overpriced, mediocre coffee all added to his foul mood and to make matters worse his layover flight had been delayed. By the time he got there it was late evening. The already quiet town of Brindle Bay was deserted and the only light came from a solitary street-lamp on the sidewalk.

The boathouse was…well…run down to put it politely. A one story structure of mossy roofing and the peeling clap-dash that had, once upon a time, been white was now grey and chipping from weather damage. Thr gravel was riddled with weeds, and in front of the porch sat a beat up, run down orange Chevy truck, and an upturned rusted powerboat from the 70’s with a tarp haphazardly slung over it. He pulled out his phone to find the note he’d made of the code for the key box as he made his way to the creaky porch. He must have spent five minutes at least fumbling with the stiff mechanism before finally jiggling it open to reveal a sight no better than the exterior. The door opened to a cramped, cluttered living room. Two moth bitten armchairs, a bookcase lined with leatherbound novels, journals and all sorts. To the left were two doors: The first being the bathroom, the second being the bedroom, and straight ahead was the dim kitchen.