Eleanor looked to Rob, who shrugged, and she turned south.
She slowed the small boat as they neared the jagged ledges. The
waves churned, tugging the craft to a smashed and splintered
end, but Eleanor held the whaler steady as she circled the treacherous
cropping. Her white knuckles clenched the tiller handle’s
twist grip against the pull—or maybe the stories of The Graves
were getting to her. Eleanor wanted to leave this place. She was
relieved to see no sign of life. Nothing stirred. Not even seabirds
lingered in the forsaken spot.