Buddy had always admired the way she handled herself during interviews with witnesses. And she was damn scary when interrogating suspects.
“Please, continue,” Dawson said.
“The next morning, before sunrise, but after we all knew Tessa hadn’t gotten home, I found Fallon’s jacket. Tessa had borrowed it—it was right by the marina parking lot. Hidden in the brush near the fence by the walkway. It was folded, nice and neat, which seemed weird.”
“That is odd,” Flagler said quietly, like the words tasted wrong.
Dawson leaned back. “Tripp noted that in the original report. He thought it meant staging, and they searched for days for a body, but one was never found.”
Buddy had never known Tripp, but he’d heard stories. A small-town police chief who didn’t always do things by the book but never bent the law to the point of breaking it. “According to his report, he never believed she ran away, like some other experts did.”
“A couple of the FBI agents who’d rolled into town to help believed she ran off. The state investigator did as well. But anyone who’d spent any time with Tessa knew she wasn’t the kind of kid who took off,” Silas said. “Tripp hated having nothing to hand Tessa’s family. Hated even more when he knew there were a few other girls not far from here who went missing during that two-year period. But he couldn’t connect the dots on his own, and no one would listen.”
Flagler straightened. “I checked those cases. Two still missing. One body was recovered a month later near Coral Bay. Never solved.”
“Same age range?” Buddy asked.
“Seventeen to nineteen.”
Silas scratched at his scruffy face. “This town’s been on edge ever since. Parents started checking windows twice before bed. Curfews. Kids didn’t walk home alone after dark. Then Dewey, a man who’d basically lived here his entire life, ended up being the Ring Finger killer, and that didn’t help.”
Chloe snorted, then covered her mouth. “Understatement of the decade.”
Buddy understood why Chloe might find the statement teetering on dark humor. Dewey had murdered her sister, among over thirty other victims. Not to mention, as it turned out, Dewey was her biological father. When everything was said and done, she found out she had a half-sister.
Talk about strange times.
Silas glanced between them all. “Look—Tessa’s case—it’s the one that this town never let go. I’m sure Tripp wrote about it in his private journal. He kept those pages separate from his reports. Like he was trying to solve it in his sleep. He did that with a lot of things.”
“I’m well aware.” Dawson lifted the leatherbound book, flipping through Tripp’s sparse notes. “Not much here about the investigation. Just mentions of the families, Fallon’s grief, and the fact that he hated dead ends. The rest is just his frustration over having no leads and nothing to give the family.”
Silas’s hands trembled on the brim of his cap. “Fallon did everything she could to help back then. She was just a kid herself. But she never stopped—fundraisers, prevention work, speaking at schools. All of South Florida knows who she is and who she lost.”
Buddy’s throat tightened because he knew exactly how many ways loss could twist a person.
And Fallon… hers was woven into everything she did.
“Thank you, Silas. That’s all we need right now,” Flagler said.
Silas stood. Paused. Looked at Buddy with something like an apology. “I hope you catch whoever’s doing this. Fallon deserves peace. Been a long time coming.”
“We will,” Buddy vowed.
Silas tipped his head and headed toward the door. As he reached for the handle, he paused again. “Oh—Dawson? I thought you should know that I told public works the channel markers from forty-one to forty-six need repainting. Faded to hell. Nearly put some idiot tourist in the mangroves last week.”
Buddy’s pulse raced, but he didn’t move. Instead, he processed the information.
Red and green channel markers. Not blue.
But still.
“I know, but thanks. I’m pretty sure both Fletcher and Keaton have spoken to them as well. Keaton said he’d paint them personally.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Buddy said. “Where are those channel markers?”
“Forty-one’s at the mouth of the channel into the bay. Forty-two is between the marina and Crab Shack. The rest move into the Glades toward Snake River.” Silas glanced between Buddy and Dawson. “Anything else?”
Buddy shook his head.
