He knew she was playing a role.
And he was telling her he'd play along.
2
Cara stoodnext to Wade as they waited for the police to approach. She fought the urge to run, suspecting Wade was doing the same. The silence between them was almost comfortable, two performers waiting for their audience to get into position.
Wade had shifted into what she was starting to think of as his harmless fisherman stance: weight on one hip, shoulders slightly slumped. But she noticed how he'd positioned himself with clear sightlines to both the road and the waterline. His hand occasionally drifted to his pocket, checking for something. Weapon? Phone? Old habit from reaching for equipment that wasn't there anymore?
Chief Randy Hale's squad car door slammed. The middle-aged Hale hauled himself out with all the urgency of someone approaching a parking meter. Deputy Hank Brewer followed, a younger, livelier version of the chief, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Morning, Miss Sweet." Hale lifted a hand in greeting, his uniform shirt straining against a belly that spoke of too many free meals at Reagan's diner. "Wade. Heard we got a floater."
Cara felt Wade stiffen minutely beside her. Floater. Like the body was just debris.
"Looks like," Wade answered mildly. "Found him when I was heading out to check my engines."
"Happens sometimes." Brewer hadn't even gotten close enough to see the body properly. "Tourists don't respect the ocean."
A rental SUV pulled up hard beside the squad car, spraying gravel. The door opened before it fully stopped. Cara went on high alert. She sensed Wade do the same, though his only outward reaction was to pull his fishing cap lower over his eyes.
The man who stepped out moved with desperate purpose barely held in check. Six-two, maybe six-three. Dark hair cut regulation short. FBI, had to be. But it was the controlled panic in his movements that made her stomach clench.
"Gabe Sawyer, FBI," he said, already moving toward the body, credentials out but barely showing them. "Is it—I need to see?—"
His voice cracked slightly. He was already past them, heading for the water.
"Wait," Hale started, but Sawyer was already at the body.
"Turn him over," Sawyer ordered, his composure clearly hanging by a thread. "Now."
"We need to wait for?—"
"Turn him over!" The command came out raw. "My brother's been missing for three weeks. David Sawyer. He was working a story in this area. Just—please."
Hale and Brewer exchanged glances, then scuffled through the sand to the body.
"You’ll want gloves for that," Wade said.
Hale shot him an irritated look but pulled on latex gloves. Brewer followed suit. They stepped into the knee-high surf and rolled the corpse over. Water dribbled from soakedfabric. Sand sloughed away from features bloated by seawater.
The agent took one step forward. Two. Then stopped.
"It's not him." The words came out as a whisper. Then stronger: "It's not David."
His knees actually buckled slightly. He caught himself, one hand going out as if to grab something that wasn't there. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, like he'd just run miles.
"You're sure?" Hale asked.
"I'm sure." Sawyer bent forward, hands on his knees, just breathing. The relief was so intense it was almost painful to witness. "I've never seen this man before."
Cara found herself looking away, giving him a moment of privacy in his relief. Beside her, Wade had done the same, studying the horizon with sudden interest.
"Thank you, Lord," Sawyer muttered. He straightened slowly, pulling himself together piece by piece. When he turned back to face them, the FBI agent was back.
But his hands were still shaking slightly. "Okay," he said, more to himself than them. "Okay."
Then he bowed his head. “Lord have mercy. And give strength to whoever's missing him right now."
