He blinked. Focused. The rage came then, cold and clean, burning away the shock.
"On your right," Dove said.
He rolled just as another shot churned up the ground where he'd been lying. The shooter had circled, trying to flank him.
Dove fired. Once. Twice. The shots were precise, controlled—covering fire meant to drive them back, not kill.
Part of Trent wished she'd aimed to kill.
Both figures broke for the tree line, abandoning any pretense of fighting.
Trent scrambled up and ran after them, Dove matching his pace. The ground turned soft, treacherous, sucking at his boots with every step. Ahead, he could hear splashing—they'd reached the water.
An engine roared to life.
By the time Trent burst through the mangroves, the boat was already pulling away from the bank. A flat-bottomed skiff, outboard screaming at full throttle, throwing a wake that slapped against the shore. Two dark figures hunched low in the stern.
Trent raised his pistol. His hand was steady. His aim was true.
He could take the shot. At this range, in this light, he might hit one of them. Might put a bullet in the back of the man who'd killed Bonnie.
Dove's hand closed over his wrist. "Don't."
"He killed her."
"I know." Her grip was firm. "And if you shoot him in the back while he's fleeing, you'll go to prison."
The boat disappeared into the darkness.
Trent stood there, chest heaving, pistol still raised at nothing. The rage had nowhere to go. It sat in his chest like a hot coal, burning with no way out.
"Put the gun down,” Dove said softly.
He lowered his arm, but his pulse still soured. “I swear to god, if Karl had anything to do with this, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do.”
“That’s grief talking,” Dove whispered. She stood beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her shoulder.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Red and blue lights flickered through the trees as Dawson's cruiser came down the drive.
Trent turned as he sucked in a deep breath. Dove pressed her hand against his back and nudged him forward.
Dawson stepped from his vehicle and immediately shone a light. It found the blood first.
It was smeared across the mud at the water's edge, black in the darkness, leading down to where Bonnie's body floated in the shallows. Her eyes were still open, catching the light like dull marbles.
Dawson stood very still for a long moment. Then he turned to look at Trent, and his expression was different than before. Harder. More focused. "Tell me what happened."
Trent did. His voice was flat, mechanical, reciting facts without emotion because emotion was too dangerous right now.
Dove filled in the gaps he missed, her tone professional and precise.
“What do you think happened here?” Dawson asked.
“I think Karl hired someone to pay me a visit—I just don’t know what the endgame was because whatever they were doing, it doesn’t make sense.” Trent let out a long breath and stared out into the river. “I would’ve expected him to go after one of the gators, or to hit the commercial side of the business. Instead, they were walking the property near the waterline toward the marsh. That part is all protected by the natural habitat. It’s useless to anyone.”
“I wouldn’t go creeping around the habitat or alligator farm alone at night.” Dawson shivered. “Even my wife would have reservations about that.”
“Are you kidding? Audra loved coming to Mallor's Landing when she was a teenager and she was my hero when I was like six.”
