Marshall leaned against the rail, gaze stretching out over the sun-dappled water, and smiled. He dragged in the salty brine of ocean as the ferry ploughed towards the dock, people pushing in around him, readying to disembark. As May rounded in to June, tourist season was now kicking in. The beaches would be thick with families and greased bodies soaking up the brilliant summer sun, dogs clamouring in pounding surf. The air ripe with sunscreen, hotdogs and salt.

Haven Island was a perfect little oasis on one of the most beautiful coasts in the world. With a moderate climate, the seasons gave way to warm summers and mild winters. Home to twelve thousand inhabitants, the local town of Salt Springs stood as the central hub driving the economy. It had grown and changed shape from his days as a boy, and now had everything from shopping to cuisine, amenities to art galleries, thriving farmlands and some of the most striking beaches this side of the Pacific.

The last time he'd been home was about this time last year, and before that...too damn long, he thought. His visits were short and not often enough. Always dragged away by the call of a story, out into the muck and mire. Marshall worked the muscle above his right shoulder with his hand, massaging and kneading the ache from the joint. He itched for the release of meds but didn't want to cave to the weakness. Not when they dulled his mind. Took away his keen edge of observation, a journalist's prime asset. And even though he wasn't facing off with a jaded senator or gun-toting religious supremacist, he preferred to maintain a sharp mind.

Anxious to get off the boat, LeBron leapt up at his side, tongue lolling out and paws folding over the rail. Marshall scratched the sweet spot behind his ears.

Danni had given him a week to find something, and his sister dropped an intriguing ball right into his lap. While LeBron dropped down to wind around him in spastic, impatient circles, Marshall thumbed through his blackberry for his text conversation with his younger sister. After his mother had called a couple days ago, he'd kept close tabs on the trending hype, surprised to see that interest in Faces of Haven was continuing to spike.

According to his mom, his sister had gone into business with one of Haven's more recent acquisitions. Eva Turner, single mom of three girls. A quiet and surly sort, or so he'd warned. But talented, a fact he had ascertained for himself after scoping out her work online, both on her website and those that had circled the world in a viral frenzy. Her work was of people, but always non-descript. She stuck with features: eyes, mouths, hands, and paired the images with select bits of information. Secrets. Some dark and harrowing, the sort of things people kept buried deep inside.

He imagined the idea behind the art was that by looking at these images, uncovering these secrets, people found a connection within themselves. Creating an intimate connection between the owner of the secret and the one who owns the image.

All images were one of a kind, with no reprints or reproductions-no matter how much someone is willing to pay-and the secret is sold with the image. It can be shared with no one or everyone; the choice rested with the person who made the purchase. Apparently no one had elected to do so, until now. That person being Sam Russell's fiancée, no less. And-boom-just like that, Out of Focus was now an overnight, viral success. There were sure to be reporters and journalists already on the ground clamouring for details, but only Marshall had his foot in the door with an interview scheduled for today at noon.

And by the time he was finished Out of Focus Gallery would launch into the stratosphere.

Securing a car rental near the dock, Marshall contented himself with a short drive through town, admiring the new sprawling neighbourhoods and housing developments. Window down, LeBron's head stuck out in tongue wagging glory, he pulled up to his eldest brother Ethan's place. Throwing the car into park he opened the passenger door and let the dog out first.

The key was where Ethan had said it would be, behind a loose board to the left of the front door. Slotting it into the lock, he pushed into the place, hauling bags and dog behind him. The place was sparsely furnished and clean as a pin. Ethan had always been anal about dust, he thought, setting it bags down and booting the door shut with his foot.

At his side, LeBron tipped back his lead and sucked in deep, panting breaths. There was no mistaking the salty, fatty, salivating aroma of bacon sizzling in a pan. So Ethan was still around. And to answer the thought, a dark head poked around the corner, a pair of shrewd eyes softening at the sight of him.

"Hey, you're early," he said, closing the distance to catch him in a bracing hug.

"Yeah. Hope you don't mind. Didn't expect you to be here. Don't you have cats in trees to save?"

Ethan's lips pulled at the left corner, the closest to a smile you'd get out of him on most days. Ethan was always a serious, no-nonsense sort, but the man had a funny bone buried under layers and layers of work ethic and responsibility. Not everyone knew where to find it, but Marshall understood his brother better than most; they both shared a deep appreciation for basketball, leggy blondes and The Fray.

"Thought you could use a bit of company. And I needed some time to breathe. Been pulling a couple of long days this week. Come on, I got beers in the fridge and breakfast is almost ready. Won't take me long to fry more eggs." Leading the way, Marshall followed his brother to the large, newly renovated eat-in kitchen.

The house had been in rough shape five years ago when Ethan had snatched it up. Badly neglected over two long decades, it had been the place for the young and horny teenagers to sneak out and hook up. Marshall recalled many a fine night here with his lips wrapped around Gillian's, hands shoved up her shirt. God, he'd been all thumbs back then and hadn't had a damn clue about what he was doing.

But the man he was today was a long, long way from that awkward, clumsy boy.

"How's the war wound?" Ethan asked while dishing out bacon atop a couple of sunny-side up eggs. Pushing the plate towards Marshall, he turned back around and cracked a couple more into the hot skillet.

"Coming along with the speed of Sunday driving Granny." Climbing onto the bar stool, Marshall plucked up a piece of bacon and lobbed it to LeBron who leapt, caught and devoured it in one, clean snap.

"It'll get easier," Ethan said, dusting his eggs generously with salt and pepper, turned off the heat, and whistled for LeBron. The golden mass of slobbering fur bounded over as Ethan opened the back door and led him out to join his own dogs in the yard; a six year-old female husky and a two year-old male Sheppard. LeBron was going to be in his glory during this visit.

"He looks good on you," Ethan commented, re-joining Marshall in the kitchen, compiling food on his plate. While his brother pulled up a stool and tucked in, Marshall made himself at home and got the beer from the fridge door.

"He's a crazy pain in the butt," Marshall laughed, popping off the caps. "But the docs were right. Having him around is helping with the anxiety. Hate having to admit it, but I sleep better with him around. No more night terrors and waking in a cold sweat."

"Two weeks as a terrorist hostage will do that to you," Ethan said after a long, pensive swallow of brew. "I'll never forget mom's face when we got the call. Never seen her cry like that before. Thought she was going to jump on a plane and fly straight down there, take out the whole Boko Haram with her own hands, if needs be, just to get you back home."

Wincing, Marshall hung his head. Sighed. As the second born of seven kids, he was far from the baby of the brood, but Lottie Davies wasn't the sort to play favourites. She loved and worried about all of her kids in equal measure. He still remembered waking up in a hospital in New York after flying in, the look on her face as she clutched his hands. All white-faced and red-eyed. She'd stayed glued to his side for all of his three-day admittance, then made the trip back to his place in Toronto for another two weeks while he recouped through the worst of it. Holding and rocking him when he woke in the nights, a shaking, sobbing mess.

She was the first to recommend he get a dog, advice later echoed by a slew of doctors. Advice he'd stubbornly ignored for at least three months before caving due to extreme exhaustion.

"I hate knowing she was so scared."

"We all were, man." Ethan reached over, set a hand over Marshall's forearm rather then his shoulder. "Please tell me those days are over, Bro? No more standing in the line of fire? Don't think mom's heart could take it if you went back out there."

"No. No I'm not going back. Even if a part of me misses it, I'm too...afraid." And because his stomach was seizing in panicked knots, Marshall kicked back his beer and chugged the sensation away. "That's why I'm here now. Looking for a new trajectory, so to speak."

"Oh?" A pensive brow rose over quiet, all-seeing eyes. Blue as the pacific waters hedging beyond the fenced line of his property. While they ate and drank, Marshall brought Ethan up to speed on the call he'd had with his editor.

            "You really think this gallery business could be big news?"

            "If you'd asked me that five-six years ago, I would've said no," Marshall confessed. "But the world is changing, and these viral trends are taking over. People are getting famous because of a six second clip, or a snapped candid taken on some kids iPhone. Remember that country cowboy father who put six bullets in his daughter's laptop for mouthing off about her step mother on Facebook? What if I told you that dude had networks lining up for weeks offering him a chance at starring in his own reality TV show?"

            Ethan snorted. "Get the fuck out."

            "I'm telling you," Marshall laughed, "with the interest Eva Turner's photography is getting, I wouldn't be surprised if this time next week she's fielding offers of her own."    

            Ethan's body shuddered in horror.

"So, tell me about this Eva chick. What's your take on her?"

Ethan picked up a bit of bacon with his fingers, bit off the end. "A keep to herself sort. Devoted mom. Homeboy, I guess. Don't hear her name come up too much in stray conversation, anymore, unless it's to comment on her art. Folks around here like what she's put together." He stuffed the rest of the strip into his mouth, munched thoughtfully. "Aren't you the one with all the resources? Why are you asking me?"

"I tried running a bit of a search on her before I got here and came up bone dry. I mean nothing. She's completely Google-proof." 

Ethan lifted a broad shoulder, a slow and lazy gesture. "Lots of people don't get hits on Google."

"Not like this," Marshall pressed. "She's too...clean. Far as I can tell she hasn't even left a review on Amazon, for crying out loud."

"You're over analyzing." Finished with his breakfast, Ethan rose, brought his plate to the sink. "Eva's a keep to herself kind of woman. She's decent, law-abiding-far as I can see, and a respected member of the community. Mom adores her," he added, dusting his hands. "And mom's no patsy." 

"No, she's not," Marshall agreed, bringing his plate over to the large copper apron sink, as well. Checking the time on his watch and figured he had at least three hours to burn.

"Thanks for the grub, bro. I think I'll grab a shower and an hour of shut eye," he said, stifling a yawn.

"Sure. Go on ahead. Got the guestroom all sorted for you. I'll check on the dogs, take 'em out to the trail to burn off some energy."