So I decided to post this chapter a little early this week! I know theres lots of character building and blah blah but I promise it's worth it! Thank you so much to all that are reading! I hope to hear more feedback!

Also, quick thanks to Calliope's Scribe for the review, I appreciate it lots! :)

Also Also, if you want to listen to something while reading this chapter may I suggest this!:

watch?v=s11BuatTuXk

A lot of my chapters have songs attached to them, and since she is in Boston right now, much of them will be of that caliber

Happy Reading!

Meara's mind was reeling. She hugged her left shoulder for warmth as the wind rips through her, she shuffles through the cobblestone back alleys of Boston's main streets. What was she doing signing up for a solo mission, she knew better. She runs her fingertips against the aging brick and she sighs, feeling the sharpness of the stone's stubble digging into her skin. Travis was going to be the death of her.

She turns a corner of a skinny alley way and a small wooden gate greets her. It creeks open with the push of her knee. She turns around and latches it as her hair tumbles forward, she tucks it behind her ear to take a final glance behind her. Squinting to make sure no one was there, she turns her gaze to a tall, slender townhome, one light still on in the top left corner. She smiles as she sees the outline of her father, sitting at his desk, busily writing away. Her eyes scan down to the twisted wooden steps and she climbs up to the paint chipped red door, presses down on the iron handle and lets herself in.

"Hey Dad!" She calls up to him from the bottom of the spiral staircase, the heavy door shutting behind her. The stairs are lined with dusty stacks of encyclopaedias, stuffed with loose papers of her father's research. Crooked picture frames with childlike paintings of whales over beaches run parallel up the walls. With no response she could still hear his feet tapping against the floor above her, he must be heavily in thought. She opens the old French doors into the kitchen, they creek at the action. She eyes up the multi-coloured cupboards, the doors warped and some not hanging in the proper places. She pulls one open in search of a mug, seeing them stacked on top of each other causing the shelf to bend in the middle. She pulls one out from under the stack, it reads; My Dad is better than your Dad and she places it on the mosaic countertop. As she places an aging pot on an old coil stove she hears the hurried foot falls of her father coming down the stairs.

"Three … Four, no that's not it," he mumbles, Irish thick on his speech. His back pushes the doors open, "That can't be right." He spins around to face Meara, his shoulder length hair tussled from a long night of thinking and he almost barrels into her.

"Dad!" Meara barks at him, no longer wanting to be ignored.

"Christ!" Her father almost drops his papers in fright. He fumbles to catch them as his glasses descend to the tip of his nose. "Now what are you going and doing that for!" He shoots her an annoyed look. His gaze quickly softens as he sees the state of his daughter. Practically shivering in front of him and eyebrows furrowing something fierce. He knew right away she was thinking too hard on something. "Whats' the matter darlin'?"

Meara rolls her eyes. How her father always knew when she was distressed escaped her, and also angered her. "Nothing," she retorts, her mouth a hard line, eyes now focusing on the pot of water in front of her.

"Yeah, okay," he returns with sarcasm. He places his mound of papers on the counter with a thud, cutting off her access to the sugar cupboard. She whips her head around to glare at him. He raises his eyebrow, a smirk spread across his face.

"I'm not in the mood Dad." She puts much emphases on the d.

"Thought you said nothin' was bothern' you?"

"Nothing was,"

"But now somethin' is?"

"Yeah, now you are!"

"But I did nothin'!?"

"Ugh!" Meara throws her hands up in the air.

"Why are you hidin' somethin' from me darlin'?" Her father asks while placing his elbow on his stack of papers, holding his head in his hand.

Meara turns to look at him, the water reaching its boiling point along with hers. She looks down at the pot, taking the handle and pouring the hot water into her mug. She drops the tea bag in a little too roughly causing splashes of liquid to hit her hand. She hisses and does her best not to wince, trying to scrounge up a reason her now burning hand was her fathers fault. Coming up empty, she stomps to the small, wooden round-table to take a seat. She blows on her tea.

"Whats' the matter Meara?" he says softly, all joking aside now.

Finding comfort in his new tone, Meara eases. All frustration rapidly evaporating as quickly as it came and she lets out a heavy sigh, relaxing into the chair. Her father slowly walks over to the table and takes the seat opposite her. With her head down, she looks up to meet her fathers gaze, his eyes full with worry. She smiles, trying to ease his concern, but falters. Now realizing she has to talk, she takes a quick sip of her tea, and audibly gulps.

"I was on your old boat today, you should really fix it up, it's-"

"Why were you on the docks." Her father interrupts and his gaze begins to harden.

"Because I have two legs and can walk where ever I please," Meara interjects. She eyes her father as if to ask if he has anything else to add. He nods his head for her to continue, she mockingly clears her throat. "Anyways, at the docks-"

"You know it's not safe for you there, were you alone?" He questions. She gives him a look of disbelief.

"Yes…" She trails off. "Well I was but then Travis came and met me-"

"Don't tell me you were havin' one of them meetins'."

Meara sighs, "No, he came to talk and then a mission came up-"

"You're not takin' it." He slams his hand on the table. Meara's anger rises again.

"I'm always safe on the boat dad, I never go in the ocean!"

"I don't care, the water is always unpredictable, you never know when a storm could come in. Besides, doin' that stuff is illegal, I've been lettin' it go for too long. I should've put a stop to it years ago."

Meara pushes herself up from the table and gives her father a hard stare.

"Mom would never have wanted me to stop." The words seem to hit her father as he visible flinches but it only acts as ammunition for Meara to continue. "She never would want me to hide away behind an illness!"

Her father sighs and pushes his glasses up on his nose. "Please Meara, see where I'm comin' from."

"No!" She shouts at him. "You need to see where I'm coming from for once!"

"Please I-"

"Stop. Let me do this, it's the only way I feel normal,"

"Darlin' you are normal, it's just-"

"Enough!" Her brows furrow, her hair almost seems to become more red from her seething temper. "I'm in my twenties for Christ sake, why am I even pretending like I'd listen to you? I'm doing just fine hiding my rotten little secret for you Dad. Don't worry, your job wont get jeopardized 'cause of me. We can keep carrying on like a happy family, and me as your normal little daughter, who is just afraid of the fucking sea!" With that, she grabbed her mug and marches for the stairs to her room. Her father tries to grab her arm to stop her but she dodges, causing warm tea to splash on her sweater. She loudly growls like a child throwing a tantrum, and continues for the staircase.

Her father just sighs as he listens to her heavy foot steps thundering across the ceiling to her bedroom. He slumps back into his chair, rubs his face and runs his fingers through his hair. He stares out the window of his kitchen, looking past the other slim townhomes, trying to catch a glimpse of the moons glow on the ocean. He reluctantly smiles, letting out a scoff.

"She's just like her ma."