He glanced at Fallon. She was watching him that steady way of hers that didn’t ask for promises he couldn’t make. He wanted to go to her, to put a hand on the back of her neck and tell her something that would make sense of this. He stayed where he was because there was a dead girl five feet into the trees and he knew better than to touch the living when the dead needed naming.
On the far side of the channel, a blue heron stepped once, slow, and then lifted into the air with a crank of its wings like an old hinge. It cut across the glare and was gone.
Buddy stared at the place it had been and thought about coincidence.
He didn’t believe in it.
“Whoever he is,” Flagler said, low, “he thinks he’s winning.”
Buddy kept his eyes on the water until it stilled around the bumpers he’d set. “Until we catch him, he is.”
Chapter Thirteen
The next day, Fallon stood just outside the back door of the Crab Shack. It carried a strange kind of gravity—half comfort, half ghosts. Slowly, she walked toward the water. The planks of the dock were worn under her boots, and the sunlight was sharp enough to make her squint. The channel stretched vast and endless, a mirror of brackish water broken only by the dark slashes of mangrove roots. No clouds on the horizon. No storms creeping in off the Gulf. Just the still, breathless heat that made the air heavy as syrup.
A gull cried overhead, circling lazy arcs, waiting for scraps. The smell of butter and frying crab drifted from the kitchen window, tangled with hickory smoke from the pit out back. The same scent had clung to this place since she was a kid—back when she and Tessa used to sneak fries during their shift and swear they’d never leave Calusa Cove.
That memory used to make her smile. Now, it pressed against her chest like a bruise.
She rubbed the back of her neck and forced herself to breathe.
Tessa’s Project. Every year it brought people together—families, fishermen, retirees, kids running barefoot down the boardwalk—but it also pulled at something deep inside Fallon. A crack that refused to seal.
“Don’t tell me you’re hidin’ out again.” Leroy’s voice rolled out from behind her, warm and teasing. The Shack’s head cook wore his usual grease-splattered apron and had the kind of charm that could calm a hurricane.
“Not hiding,” she said, forcing a smile over her shoulder. “Just thinking.”
“Ah. Dangerous habit.” He leaned on the railing beside her. “You got all your ducks in a row for Saturday?”
“Pretty much. Food’s sorted, band’s confirmed, volunteers lined up.”
“Good,” he said with a satisfied nod. “’Cause I’ve got my kitchen crew fightin’ for braggin’ rights. Mrs. Culver’s coleslaw might actually kill a man this year.”
Fallon laughed softly. “She swears the secret is in the vinegar.”
“Yeah, and the pound of sugar she ‘accidentally’ dumps in.” He handed her a small plate with a pair of golden crab cakes. “Try these. New batch.”
The scent hit first—buttery, spicy, alive. She took a bite and closed her eyes, the taste bright and familiar. “Leroy, these are ridiculous.”
“Secret spice,” he said.
“Old Bay, lemon zest, Worcestershire sauce, and extra butter?”
He snapped his fingers. “Damn. Ruined my mystery again.”
For a moment, the world stilled. The laughter, the heat, the ghosts—all of it faded under the comfort of something simple.
“You doin’ okay?” he asked softly.
She looked out over the water again. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? You got that faraway look. The one you get when you’re talkin’ to the shadows that live in the swamp.”
Fallon exhaled, steady but quiet. “Some shadows don’t listen when you tell them to leave.”
“Yeah, well,” Leroy said, resting his elbows on the railing. “Some people don’t know how to stop fightin’ for the ones they lost. Ain’t the worst problem to have.”
Her throat tightened. Showing up—again and again—wasn’t courage. It was survival.
