Thanks for the help. Would love to grab a cup of coffee or have a drink to catch up. It’s been a while.
Buddy stared at the screen for a beat, then tucked the phone away without answering. Not because he didn’t have words. But he didn’t think texting her back in the middle of a crime scene was appropriate.
Then again, his thoughts weren’t all that appropriate anyway.
He sighed. She was too young and not his type. Of course, neither of those things were really true. She might be ten-ish years younger, but they were both adults. And she was exactly the kind of woman he liked—in every way.
Which made her fucking dangerous.
“Let’s get back to work,” Buddy said.
Sterling nodded and fed the engine. The skiff lifted and slid forward, leaving the rot-stink and the secrets to ferment behind them. Ahead, the channel widened to a bright scar of sun and Buddy reminded himself that his days searching for answers regarding murder, death, and missing girls were long over. That’s not what he was paid to worry about, and he needed to focus on other things.
Not this case.
And certainly not Fallon Reeves.
Chapter Two
Massey’s Pub smelled like fried shrimp, old wood, and the citrus cleaner Juniper swore by, even though it made Fallon’s eyes sting. Locals packed the bar like always. Their sunburns fading into stories. A baseball game murmured on the TV with the sound turned low. Someone had left their flip-flops under a high-top and forgotten them, which felt exactly right for Calusa Cove.
Fallon took her usual table by the front window and ordered a blackened grouper sandwich and a rum runner with a floater. She wasn’t driving. She lived down the street, across from Harvey’s Cabins, and her yard butted right up against Buddy’s rental.
She checked her cell—still no reply from Buddy.
She put her phone face down.
It was ridiculous to be annoyed. She’d texted him a thank-you—and, okay, a not-so-subtle “coffee or drink sometime”—from the swamp because she’d been riding adrenaline and gratitude and maybe the memory of a man with a kind heart and a generous wallet when it came to her annual fundraiser. He didn’t owe her anything. It wasn’t an invitation for a date—just casual friends who occasionally texted the not-so-casual sexual innuendos to one another. But lines existed for a reason.
She tucked the phone under her napkin as if that might stop her from looking again.
Sipping her drink, she glanced around the bar at all the usuals. Not much ever changed in Calusa Cove. The town had its fair share of drama, but the people and the nightly routine generally stayed the same.
For years, she’d thought about moving away. When she’d decided to become a Fish and Wildlife Officer, she figured she’d move north. Go anywhere but the place Tessa had disappeared. However, she could never bring herself to leave. It was as if she had to torture herself with the memory. Remind herself that it could’ve been—should’ve been—her.
When the Ring Finger Killer had finally been caught—right in their own backyard—she’d thought maybe the mystery behind what happened to her best friend had been solved. Only, of all the trophies Dewey had kept, Tessa’s finger wasn’t among them.
And none of his victims had ever been that young, not even when he’d first started.
The air in her lungs flew out like a wild raven when Buddy stepped into the main dining area with a woman. She was petite, with shoulder-length hair, dark eyes that missed nothing. Black jeans. Black tee. No badge, no gun in sight. She moved like someone who could disappear without leaving a ripple.
The woman laughed at something Buddy said, easy and warm, and Fallon’s stomach did a tiny, stupid drop.
Well. That explained the lack of response.
She took two gulps of her beverage, letting the rum burn as it went down, and reminded herself that Buddy’s romantic choices were none of her business, and that, regardless, she wasn’t looking for Mr. Right. She never was. She lived her life by one rule, and that was to live in the moment.
Juniper—the new owner, since Paul’s wife finally sold and moved out of town—beelined for them with menus. Buddy scanned the room like it was habit, and his gaze caught on Fallon before she could pretend she hadn’t been watching the door. He hesitated, said something to the woman beside him, then crossed the room.
“Hey Fallon,” he said with that kind, warm smile that had this weird effect on her that she didn’t want to acknowledge. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” she returned the smile, because she could fake it like the best of them. “Massey’s on a Wednesday. Bold move.”
“The grouper’s always good,” he said. “Sterling heard the ribs were good, so now he won’t even try the catch of the day, but that may be CIA talking.”
“Sterling’s CIA? That explains the clean-cut look.”
“It should explain more than that,” he said. “And this is Dovelynn Quinn.” He angled a hand toward the woman approaching. “Goes by Dove. Ex-Army, sniper.”
