The morning sun crawled lazily across the worn wooden planks of Morine Mercer’s kitchen in Rockport, Massachusetts, casting long, dancing shadows. The salty air, heavy with the promise of another summer’s day, drifted in through the window. For many, Rockport was the picture-perfect postcard of a coastal town: harbors brimming with fishing boats, the bustle of fish markets, and a close-knit community that felt like family. But for Morine, 46, the town had become a prison of memories—every corner, every shop, every familiar face a painful reminder of a past that refused to heal.

Her mind wandered, an echo constant since that terrible day in 1985, as she washed the same coffee cup for the third time. The mechanical act was a way to keep the storm of thoughts at bay. A knock at the door broke her trance. Through the fogged glass, the sight of a police car parked outside sent an immediate chill deep into her bones. Her hands shook as she dried them on a dish towel and walked toward the door, her chest tight with that familiar knot of fear and hope.

Two officers stood on her porch, their expressions serious but gentle. One of them, Officer Brenan—whom she knew from town—removed his cap respectfully. “Mrs. Mercer,” he began, “we need you to come with us to Granite Cove harbor. There’s been a development in your daughters’ case.” Morine’s heart stopped for a second. A development. After 15 years of silence, of a void that slowly consumed her, the word felt both foreign and painful. “A fisherman pulled something out of the water this morning,” the second officer explained. “We believe it’s connected to Laila and Daisy.” The names of her twin girls, once filling her world with music and laughter, now cut through her like shards of glass.

Without a word, Morine grabbed her jacket and followed the officers to the patrol car. The ten-minute drive felt like an eternity, each mile dragging her deeper into the past. At the harbor, the scene was controlled chaos. Police vehicles, forensic personnel in their distinct jackets, and, near the shore, Detective James Morrison. His gray hair tousled by the salty breeze was a familiar anchor. He had been on her case from the beginning, a pillar of support during the darkest days. Beside him stood a sun-worn fisherman. And between them, laid on a blue tarp, was something that made Morine’s breath catch.

It was the red Radio Flyer wagon. Corroded by 15 years in the ocean, encrusted with barnacles and missing a wheel, she recognized it instantly. Her legs gave way, but Detective Morrison caught her gently by the elbow. “This is Tommy Caldwell,” he said, introducing the fisherman. “He found it.” Tommy, a man in his fifties with kind eyes behind his glasses, looked uncomfortable in the spotlight. “I was trying deeper waters this morning,” he explained in his thick, comforting Massachusetts accent. “When I hauled my nets near Devil’s Drop, I saw this.” He pointed to the wagon. “I remembered the flyers. The posters. The second I saw it, I called the police.” Morine found her voice, fragile and broken. “Devil’s Drop? But no one fishes there. If it’s been there all this time, why didn’t anyone find it before?” Tommy’s answer echoed local history and superstition. “Devil’s Drop has a bad reputation. Currents that can spin your boat around, sharp rocks. The sea keeps some places for itself.”

Morine knelt, her fingers brushing the wagon’s rough surface. Despite years of damage, she could still make out the familiar scratch where Daisy had dragged it against the garage door. And faintly, beneath the grime, traces of purple nail polish. “Laila tried to paint it purple with my nail polish,” she whispered to Morrison. The detective nodded, his gaze steady. “Mrs. Mercer, this isn’t a missing persons case. The wagon was found too far out at sea. Whoever did this had a boat. This is now a criminal investigation. Possibly a kidnapping.”

The weight of that word pressed onto Morine’s shoulders. She turned to Tommy. “Thank you,” she said, “thank you for not just throwing it back into the sea. For remembering.” The fisherman’s face softened. “I’ve got grandkids, ma’am. If it were them, I’d want someone to do the same.”

The ride back to the station blurred together. Morine found herself once again in the same office where she had spent endless hours in 1985, repeating every detail, every memory. The case file, thick and worn, lay on the desk. Morrison handed her a Nokia phone, an unfamiliar object in her hands. “We need this,” the detective said. “If we’re working this actively, I need to be able to reach you.” Morine, feeling the weight of time and technology in her palm, accepted it. For 15 years, she had lived in limbo, trapped in 1985. Now, with the wagon and the phone in her possession, that limbo was dissolving, exposing a long-awaited truth.

On impulse, she decided to visit Tommy’s house. Her old Honda Civic pulled into his modest property, where a collapsing boat shed stood. She found Tommy outside, power-washing the shed. The sudden silence as he turned off the machine was filled by seagulls’ cries. They sat on old lawn chairs, and Morine opened up to him, speaking of her grief and years of isolation. “I haven’t been around the harbor much in 15 years,” she admitted. “Too many memories.” Tommy nodded, his weathered face reflecting quiet understanding.

Their talk turned to the fishing community. “How has it changed in 15 years?” Morine asked. Tommy leaned back, thoughtful. “A lot of the old-timers are gone. Young ones go to college, get office jobs. It’s hard work for uncertain pay.” Their conversation shifted to her old stall at the fish market. “Mercer’s Fresh Catch,” she said. “I had the corner spot. Best location there.” Tommy nodded. “The market was never the same without your stall. Then Frank de Witt took it over.”

Morine’s brow furrowed. Frank. She remembered his struggling business, how she had once helped him, and how he reacted with wounded pride. “He closed for a while after… after your girls,” Tommy said. “But when he came back and took your old spot, business changed for him. That corner really is magic.”

A sense of unease swept over Morine. Could it be coincidence? Or something more? As she stood to leave, she tried to pay Tommy for his help—for the hope he had given her. But Tommy firmly refused. “I’ve got grandkids,” he repeated. “If it were them, I’d want someone to do the same.” Relenting, Morine gave him her address and phone number. Driving away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Tommy still stood there, watching her. In her grief, she had forgotten the simple decency of people like him. It was a small comfort, but on a day when her darkest fears were resurfacing, it was comfort she would take.

At the fish market, a place she had avoided for 15 years, Morine found Frank’s stall, now bustling with customers. Frank, his sun-worn face set in a perpetual scowl, showed no warmth at her sight. “Well, well,” his gravelly voice said. “After a decade, you finally show your face around here.” Morine forced herself to stand tall. “I heard a fisherman found my daughters’ wagon.” Frank’s hands froze over a fish. “Who was it?” When she told him it was Tommy Caldwell, Frank snorted. “Lucky him. Hope he doesn’t use his newfound fame to open a stall around here.”

Even so, Frank handed her a box full of fresh seafood—an unexpected gift. “Take it,” he said gruffly. “I still remember when you bought out my whole stock back then. You thought I was just a miserable old man. Well, now we’re even.” Confused by the mix of pride and kindness, Morine accepted the box, only to realize her old freezer had broken years ago. With a sigh, she decided to take the box to the fish house for cleaning and storage.

In the harbor parking lot, she saw Tommy, visibly shaken, his face red with anger. He held a black trash bag that reeked of rot. “Someone dumped this in my shed,” Tommy said. “A bald man driving a dark blue or black Ford F-150, with a sticker near the plate—I couldn’t see it well.” Still holding Frank’s box, Morine offered Tommy some of the fish. “Frank gave me this,” she explained. “My freezer’s broken.” Tommy looked puzzled. “Strange. Frank gives you fish, and someone gives me rotting garbage…”

At the fish house, Morine ran into Mark Patterson, the owner, a man she hadn’t seen in years. She explained Frank had given her the box and her freezer no longer worked. With a warm smile, Mark offered to store the fish for free. As she handed over the money, a man came out of the kitchen to collect the box. It was the same man she had seen speaking with Frank at the auction house—the one in the apron, the one who had given her a key. Morine turned casually to Mark. “Who’s that?” Mark told her his name was Jessie Bond. Morine mentioned seeing him with Frank. Mark’s expression darkened. “Jessie rarely does business with Frank,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t much like the guy.”

Morine left the fish house with her mind in turmoil. The chain of events—the gift from Frank, the vandalism at Tommy’s, the mysterious man connecting them both—all felt like part of a pattern she needed to unravel. The police believed her daughters’ disappearance was a kidnapping. And the culprit had a boat. As a fisherman, Frank had access to one. And Tommy? His property had been sabotaged. With Tommy’s address in her hand, the Nokia phone in her pocket, and the image of Frank and the apron-wearing man in her mind, Morine knew the truth lay in the threads connecting these men. Fifteen years of waiting were over. The search had just begun.