"Wiley, that's an association matter, it has nothing to do with—"
"It's got my report in it." Shuford held up the notice. "Right here. Law enforcement reports, to be attached. That's me, ain't it? I'm the attachment."
Nobody said anything. The rain drummed on the flybridge overhead.
Shuford handed the papers back to Tuan, all of them, the notice and the revocation and the letter, and then he stepped behind Claudine and she felt his hands on the cuffs and heard the key, and the left came off and then the right, and her arms came back around in front of her, and she held her right wrist in her left hand and did not rub it, would not rub it, not in front of him.
"Ms. Pettaway," he said. "You're not detained."
"Thank you," she said, because her grandmother had raised her and there was no getting around it.
"Wiley, this is—"
"Mr. Tillery," Shuford said, and he did not turn around, "I'm going to say this one time. Whether your father's competent ain't for me to decide on a dock in the rain. That's a probate judge. You want to file for a guardianship, the courthouse opens Monday, or Tuesday, or whenever this storm lets it. Until a judge says different, I've got a man sitting here who knows his own name and the date and the tide and the track of the hurricane better than I do, telling me it's his boat and she's his guest. And I've got a slip that's hers. There's no theft here. There never was." He breathed out. "I should've seen that sooner. I'll be writing it up exactly like it happened."
Lawson stood on the finger pier with the rain running off the end of his nose. He looked at his father. Ozro was not looking at him. Ozro was looking at the river, breathing through his lips like a man blowing out a candle slow.
"Daddy," Lawson said. "You're going to die on that boat."
"Probably," Ozro said, without turning his head. "Let me."