A month later, Far Harbor cuts like a blade. The marina office sits dark except for a flickering streetlamp outside, where Jackson Temple waits with his collar up and his face worn thin by bad sleep.

Dallas Fontaine steps into the cold. Jackson grips a manila envelope hard enough to crease it, then glances toward the lot as if expecting headlights any second.

A second figure peels out of the shadows by the pier stairs, a broad-shouldered man in a grease-stained pea coat. He has a split lip, one eye bruised shut, and a knife low at his thigh.

Jackson flinches, but he keeps the envelope tucked to his chest. The stranger shifts his weight toward Dallas, ready to spring.

Dallas drives low off the dock, shoulder first, crashing into the man in the pea coat. The knife flies wide and skitters across wet boards.

The Splintered Man goes down hard. Dallas rides him to the planks, trapping his wrist before it can twitch back toward the blade.

Murderbone hits from the side and clamps onto the man’s coat sleeve, dragging him flat. The stranger curses once, then grunts as the dog pins his arm.

Dallas wrenches the man’s coat open and the manila envelope slides free, crumpling under his palm. Jackson’s grip loosens as he sees it leave the stranger’s reach.

Pinned face-down, the Splintered Man spits seawater and laughs through the pain. "Too late," he snarls, staring past Dallas toward the dark lot, "he already knows Temple talked."