Buddy chewed on that thought for a moment. “What did you see on her? Notice any markings? Brusing?” He couldn’t stop his brain from going through the motions if he tried, especially when it involved dead bodies.
Fallon’s mouth flattened. “Wrist grooves. Fresh. Zip ties, wide. Ankles too. One sneaker. Mud on it that isn’t from here—grain is finer, lighter color. There was a smell…not swamp. Cleaner or fuel, maybe.”
Buddy glanced at Sterling, who’d taken out his phone and was tapping on the screen—taking notes, no doubt, he was good that way. “Okay.”
Dawson cut his engine and drifted in, his gaze tracking everything at once. He might be a small-town police chief, but he had big-city instincts. “Nobody moves until I say so,” he called. “We’re going to do this right. Fallon, you holding the line?”
“Copy,” Fallon said. She lifted her voice without raising it. “Trent, Cullen—I’m going to need you to stay put for a little while longer.”
Trent lifted both palms and smiled like a man who expected the lecture and might bring donuts later to make it square. Cullen didn’t smile at all. His eyes were on the water, dark and far away.
Chloe hopped down to Fallon’s deck and touched her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Fallon’s gaze slid back to Buddy and held it, like she needed… something, but he didn’t know what.
“Hey Buddy,” Chloe said. “I’m gonna need you to stay outside my chain unless requested.”
“Understood.” He meant it.
He also meant to be useful.
Dawson tossed a roll of tape to Chloe. “Box off the root line. Fallon, walk me through your approach and extraction, then start your report. Trent, Cullen, I’m gonna want to hear what you have to say now and then, statements at the station. Don’t make me chase you.”
“Yes, sir.” Trent using the word “sir” was new. But Dawson had earned the respect of all of Calusa Cove within the first few months he’d rolled into town, so it wasn’t all that surprising.
Cullen nodded once.
“Sterling,” Buddy said, keeping his voice low. “Grab three wide shots of the canopy gaps and the waterline. From our boat only. Nothing on her deck. No angles that step on their chain.”
Sterling raised his phone once, twice, three times—deliberate, respectful—and pocketed it. “Done.”
Buddy looked at the water where the girl had been, noticing how long it took the surface to settle at the edge of the roots. A faint, opalescent sheen winked there, almost invisible under shade.
“See that?” he murmured.
“Fuel,” Sterling said. “Or cleaner. Trace.”
“From where she came, not from here,” Buddy said. The current pushed left. The sheen drifted right, lazy, as if it had seeped from still water to moving water. “Fallon.” He pointed to the spot Sterling had noted.
“Already got it.” She turned her attention back to Dawson.
Fallon gave Dawson her sequence. She didn’t dramatize, didn’t soften, just laid it out in succinct lines that made Buddy’s admiration click into place. When she finished, she finally let out a breath that sounded like it hurt to hold.
Dawson flicked his gaze to Buddy. “You two done helping?”
“For now,” Buddy said. “We’ll get out of your way.”
“I’ll need statements. I’ll call when I’m headed back to the station.” Dawson pointed a finger at Buddy’s chest. It wasn’t unfriendly. They’d done the jurisdiction dance once or twice and always worked well together. But that was when Buddy carried a badge. He didn’t have that added layer anymore. And honestly, he was damn glad about that. “And don’t backseat the case from your couch.”
Buddy did his best to put on an innocent face. It probably didn’t convince anyone.
They pushed off. Sterling took the tiller without being asked, and the skiff drifted back into the open water. Buddy stood with a hand on the rail and watched he could no longer see her.
They ran the skiff slowly until the channels widened and the air thinned. Buddy’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown local number. He opened it.
Fallon.
His heart did a little jump in his chest.
