The whisky wasn't helping. James Kincade had brought two bottles to Lake Superior, thinking that would be enough—enough to quiet the voice replaying his wife's last phone call, enough to numb the memory of his daughter screaming, enough to give him courage to slide over the side of the boat and let the cold water do what he couldn't do himself.

It's been two years since the home invasion that killed them. Two years of knowing that if he'd just come home from work on time, they might still be alive. Two years of drowning in guilt that no conviction, no justice, no amount of time has been able to touch.

Then the fog rolls in.

It pulls his boat to an island that doesn't appear on any map, where an old man named Waaseyaa is waiting for him. A man with eyes the color of deep water, who knows James's name without being told, who speak ...