You can’t save them all
No name. No punctuation. No call-back.
Training slid into place. She didn’t reply. Didn’t poke it. She took a clean screenshot, saved it, and let the message sit there until the sick little pulse in her neck eased a notch. She could send it to her boss, Keaton. Or to Dawson. Maybe Buddy first—since she was heading there anyway—to get a read before she lit up anyone’s phone.
Because it was probably just spam.
She set off toward the Calusa Cove Café, one block down the sunbaked sidewalk, and looked forward to a bit of gossip with a few locals while getting her morning brew. Dawson’s newest landscaper was out front of the Harvey’s Cabins in his floppy hat, hose arcing across the gravel. A couple of tourists hauled coolers toward their trunks. The OPEN sign in the office window blinked along like it had all the time in the world.
No matter the heartache this town had tossed at her over the years—her missing friend, who was still technically missing, and the loss of her parents—she still loved this place.
The café door chimed as it opened, letting out a wave of coffee and sugar. Ceiling fans pushed heavy air in lazy circles. Regulars were posted up like fixtures—bait shop guys, two retirees who played dominoes with a vengeance, a pair of nurses on night shift, and Silas.
Who didn’t love that crazy man?
“Hey there, Dynasty,” Silas said. “My wife wants to know if you’re coming to book club this month.”
“Tell her I’ll be there, and for the love of all that’s holy, please stop calling me that.”
Silas tipped his head back and laughed. “Not on your life. Besides, you kind of look like the actress who played the new Fallon on the newer version of that show.”
“She has red hair, and mine is brown. Not to mention her personality is more like Trinity’s. I don’t even own a pair of heels.” She glanced down at her flip-flops and wiggled her toes. Trinity would never. Yeah, her boss’s wife wouldn’t be caught dead in these. Glancing up at, Silas, she added, “I can’t believe you watch that crap.”
“Started watching all sorts of different things since my brother’s kid came to live here.” Silas ran a hand over his white stubble. “Cullen, he doesn’t want to watch anything military related. Crime shows affect him negatively, so it's high family drama and screaming women when he comes over. It’s something different. Wife likes it and Cullen’s lighter and he laughs more. Smiles more. And that’s the point.”
Cullen had grown up in Calusa Cove. He was closer to Trent’s age than Fallon’s, but she’d remembered Cullen from before he’d taken off for the Marines right after he turned eighteen. He’d been an outgoing and outspoken young man. He played a sport every season, he’d been popular, and no one would have ever describe him as shy.
But the man who’d returned a hero from the Marines was quite a different person. Quiet. Reserved. And a couple of years ago, he’d been afraid of his own shadow.
“I noticed he’s been spending some time with Trent.”
“Is there a problem with that, Dynasty?” Silas asked.
“Please. Quite the opposite.
“Good, because I’ve been encouraging it, which is funny because those two boys couldn’t stand each other when they were kids. My brother and Trent’s mom had to go down to the high school at least twice because of fights between those two. My brother and his wife didn’t know what to do. Cullen was normally such a good kid.”
“I’m a couple of years younger, but I can tell you that Trent was good at starting things and pushing people into finishing them.”
“Trent’s changed a lot since then. So has Cullen.” Silas snagged his coffee from the counter, inched closer, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Your dad would be so proud of the person you’ve become.” Silas smiled and then disappeared out the door. God, she adored that man. He always said the perfect things at precisely the right moment.
“You look like you could use a coffee and a prayer,” Heather said, already reaching for a cup.
“Close,” Fallon said. “I need two. One black and one with oat milk. And whatever muffins didn’t get murdered by sunrise.”
“Blueberry and banana nut. That do?”
“I’ll take one of each.”
Heather tipped her chin toward the TV mounted in the corner. Last night’s broadcast played on mute—Stacey Mohawk mid-smile, light brown hair shellacked into submission, the banner marching across the bottom: Snake Wrangler Saves Young Woman in Everglades Rescue.
Fallon pressed her tongue to her molars. “Why won’t any other station hire her?”
“I don’t know. But she could stand in front of a thunderstorm and report sunshine,” Heather said. “I didn’t watch the news last night but heard all about the rescue from Silas. Did Stacey even mention your name?”
“As a concept,” Fallon said. “Local FWC officer, assisting.”
Heather snorted. “Trent gets the hero cut, and you get the weather. I don’t get it. Stacey doesn’t even like Trent. I think she called him a Cobra once.”
