His body hadn't gotten the memo.
Dove headed straight for him.
A man followed.
Tall. Sixty, maybe sixty-five, but carrying it well. Silver at his temples, steel in his posture. A faint hitch in his gait—so slight most people wouldn't notice, but Trent did.
And his stomach dropped.
"Hey," Dove said.
"Hey, yourself."
Her mouth curved into a playful smile. "You look like hell. More than usual."
"Been a day." He fell into the easy half-teasing. He was sure he didn't look like his normal self, and his mood had been crappy for the last few hours.
Dove's hand came up to rest on the older man's arm. "Trent, this is my uncle. U.S. Marshal Aaron Slade."
“Outside of this one, everyone calls me Slade," her uncle said, offering his hand.
Trent shook it because his mother had raised him with manners, even when he didn't feel like using them. "I remember you," he blurted out. “You came to my father’s funeral.” Trent’s heart pounded behind his ribs as the guilt rose higher.
Twenty years ago, Trent had no idea what he’d seen. All he knew was that he’d witnessed two men who should be on opposing sides of the table having a secret meeting, and it looked friendly. More than friendly. He told his dad, and next thing Trent knew, his father was involved in a federal case as a witness. A few months later, he was dead, and Trent couldn’t help but feel as though it was his fault.
Dove's eyes widened slightly, cutting between them.
Slade nodded slowly. "I'm surprised you remember—you were young."
"I was fourteen." Trent kept his voice even, but something hot and old was coiling in his chest. "Old enough to remember the man who told my mother that the marshals service would find whoever leaked my father's name as a key witness before a trial even began. Old enough to notice when that promise turned out to be empty."
“That leak had nothing to do with your father’s death. Only the unraveling of the case.” Slade didn't flinch, nor did he look away. “However, we never stopped looking. The investigation?—"
"Went nowhere." Trent did his best to keep his voice from rising. "Twenty years of no answers.”
"It's not for lack of trying—especially on my part.”
“Maybe not, but we weren’t ever told anything.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended. He took a breath, forced his shoulders to relax.
Slade was quiet for a long moment. "I failed your father." He held Trent's gaze steadily. "I've carried that ever since. It doesn't change anything, but I want you to know that there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about what happened. About what I could have done differently. And since I’m here in Calusa Cove, I’d love the chance to sit down and have a conversation with you.”
Trent wanted to say something sharp. Something cutting. Something about how that didn't change the fact that Jack Mallor had trusted the marshals service and they'd gotten him killed.
"It was a long time ago," Trent said. The words felt like stones in his mouth. “I honestly don’t want to rehash it. It’s in the past. But I do have a question for you.”
“I’m happy to answer it. Could we do it over a cup of coffee?”
“I just want to know your thoughts on Garrett Dutton,” Trent said.
"I'd rather?—"
"It's not an essay question. Just a general impression is all I need." Trent resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest.
“He was a decent marshal, and I worked with him on a couple of cases. Your father’s included. He always had political dreams, and he chased them, but I didn’t know him well. Is there a reason you’re asking about him?”
“He’s running for Senate, and one of his campaign points has to do with limestone mining, which could affect Calusa Cove and my property.”
“I did hear that.” Slade nodded. “Why don’t we sit down?—”
