A quick glance, not lingering but not avoiding either. As though it were a mere accident, he lounged back against his seat. It felt like an iron maiden looked. He hoped he did not stay long.

The fellow was giving this room the most thorough inspection anyone not related by blood had (… at least in front of him). It was infuriating enough with Nesah and Ruth, but with a stranger … Zechariah’s gaze flitted to the rifle, and then to the empty fireplace.

Ridiculous. The man was just nosy. It was hardly a shooting matter.

… It better not be a shooting matter. He hardly even played darts any more.

Years of his life to the sea. Oh, God. It was exactly what he wanted to hear but he also wanted to hear Simon’s voice, alive and begging forgiveness that he would never give, and yet all it drew from Zechariah was an uncomfortable shift. Did the sea seep into this man’s skin so deeply it never scrubbed clean, too?

“God, no,” Zechariah answered, as if he were offended by the question. “Anyone can drive a boat.”

That would show him! Him. No. Euch. He need not prove anything to Simon’s ghost.

“Can you swim?” he said, less tersely.