The private slip groans under the wind. Clara, pale in the cabin light, finally breaks and whispers the name of Bell's contact here. It is not Bell she fears most, but the man Bell reported to, the last clean hand on a dirty chain.

Jackson goes still, then looks past the bow toward the pier like he expects badges to come pouring out of the fog. Murderbone growls low at the waterline, all teeth and warning.

Clara swallows hard and points toward the far end of the marina, where a parked sedan idles half-hidden behind stacked pallets. A cigarette ember glows inside, then disappears.

The wind snaps the torn gray coat in Clara's hands. The trail is no longer abstract, no longer paper and names. It is a body waiting somewhere on this pier, and Dallas has just been shown the shortest road to it.

Dallas lifts the photo into Clara's view, then turns Voss's severed tongue in his hand like evidence with a pulse. The cabin light catches both, and Clara flinches hard before she can hide it.

Her eyes fix on the photo, not the blood. Recognition drains the color from her face, and her grip tightens on the torn coat until the knuckles whiten.

Jackson watches Clara instead of the photo. His jaw hardens, but his voice stays measured, almost careful.

Clara swallows, then nods once toward the sedan. The fog swallows the cigarette glow again, but her attention has shifted, away from fear and toward memory.

Dallas lets the evidence hang there a second longer, then lowers the photo just enough for Clara to see the dead man’s message in his hand.

Clara’s shoulders sag. The fight goes out of her face, replaced by a tired, practical fear.

Jackson absorbs that in silence. He shifts one step closer to Clara, not threatening, just impatient for the next thread.

The rolled flashlight wobbles, spins, and throws a pale band across the deck as the sedan idles in the fog beyond them.

Dallas keeps his face unreadable and lets the words land. Clara’s mouth tightens, then slackens, like she has to rearrange the room around that fact.

She glances at the dark water, not at Dallas, and the fear in her posture changes shape. It is no longer about protection. It is about being next in line.

Jackson’s jaw flexes. He looks at Dallas, then back to Clara, as if deciding whether to trust the next breath she takes.

Dallas closes a hand on Clara’s coat and hauls her a half step closer. The flashlight bands slide over all three of them as the sedan idles in the fog beyond the slip.

She swallows hard, eyes on Dallas’s grip, then on Jackson’s face, measuring how much truth will still buy her air.

Jackson exhales through his nose, the answer landing like a weight he has been carrying too long. Clara keeps her chin up, but her fingers stay tight on the torn coat.