Free The Price of Malice by Archer Mayor

Washington Street, he could fully appreciate the salt-tinged quiet of the maritime breeze that had enwrapped this quintessential fishing village for over 350 years. Approaching the center of thetown—incongruously decorated by a statue of Joan of Arc—he felt the hyped-up, modern tensions of Boston’s extended commercial crush yield to something more permanent and stubborn. Perhaps Joan wasn’t so misplaced after all, he thought. She, too, persevered against reason and all odds, just as the fishing fleet in this town had defied both financial and ecological dread.
    Of course, he only hoped that Gloucester would end up better off than Joan.
    Like many of its ilk, the town has two faces—a glossy one for tourists, offering lobster meals, boutiques, ocean tours, and overpriced latté; and the time-tested working-class reality, with its docks, factories, bars, and a cluster of churches offering whatever solace the bars lacked. In a town from which, over its history, some ten thousand people had died at sea, any kindness, from any quarter, was worth consideration.
    Joe turned east, leaving the photogenic Gloucester for its grittier back bay, crested a small hill, and drove into a scene of boats, docks, and processing plants, garishly isolated from the black of night by a scattering of sodium lights, hung on high.
    Working from strained memory, he left the primary street and entered a cobweb of narrow lanes—Webster, Friend, Elwell, and more, all riding a hilly terrain like boats on a rolling sea—in search of the address he knew Lyn’s brother shared with their mother, Maria.
    Eventually, no longer sure where he was, he suddenly recognized the building—small and tired—and pulled over to the curb. In both directions, he was boxed in by rows of similar homes, mostly painted white, crowded together as if warding off wind and cold. It seemed they knew, like the generations they’d sheltered, that despite the balmy weather, bad times were just over the horizon.
    Joe craned his neck to see the house’s dark facade, recognizing Lyn’s car parked before it, and pulled his cell phone from his belt.
    A sleepy, quizzical voice answered after the sixth ring. “Hello?”
    “Lyn? It’s Joe. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
    A long pause was followed by, “It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
    “I’m all right. I know this sounds crazy, but I wanted to hear your voice again.”
    He could hear her shifting, no doubt rearranging a pillow behind her head. “Jesus, Joe.”
    “I know, I know. Stupid . . .”
    “No, not stupid,” she interrupted. “I’m glad you did.”
    “Really?”
    Another silence, followed by, “I’ve been a little jammed up, not sure what to do. I thought I had to figure that out alone.”
    “And now?”
    She sighed. “I don’t know. It’s still pretty confusing.”
    He nodded in the darkness, sharing the feeling. “How’s your mom doing?”
    “You know about that?”
    “I dropped by the bar. They told me Steve had called, and that you’d gone home.”
    “Yeah. She’s doing better. She just had a meltdown when I told her about the boat being found, and Steve couldn’t handle it on his own. He’s a little beaten up, too. With his history, I figured I better head down.”
    After his father and brother had been declared lost at sea, Steve had caved in, first indulging in drugs, and then dealing them. He’d just recently emerged from prison, barely in time to help his quasi-catatonic mother in her last years. It was no wonder they’d both been shaken by Joe’s discovery.
    “I don’t know how you’ll take this, Lyn,” Joe admitted, “but I followed you down.”
    He could almost see her astonishment. “You
what?
”
    “I drove to Gloucester. I’m parked outside your house right now.”
    No response.
    “There’s no obligation to it, Lyn,” he said quickly. “I can leave just as easily. I yielded to impulse.”
    “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she said, to his relief. “I’m sorry. I