"Then go find someone else to help you score it." Trent jerked his chin toward the truck. "Get off my property. And don't come back."
For a moment, something ugly flickered behind Karl's eyes. The kind of look that made Trent's instincts sit up and pay attention. But then it was gone, replaced by that easy grin again—though it didn't reach his eyes this time.
"You're making a mistake." Karl climbed back into his truck. "A big one. But hey—your funeral."
The engine roared to life, and Karl backed out of the driveway with more speed than necessary, kicking up a spray of gravel and crushed shell. Trent watched until the truck disappeared around the bend, then stood there a moment longer, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. The last thing his mom needed was him coming in with a shitty attitude.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Dove: On my way with food. Tell Dolly to keep her mouth shut when I cross the bridge.
Despite everything, Trent smiled. Dovelynn Quinn had a way of doing that—cutting through the noise, making him forget, even for a second, that the world was full of men like Karl Simpson.
Trent: She's not the one you need to worry about. It's the little ones that'll sneak up on you.
Dove: Sometimes I really hate you.
He chuckled, and it felt so damn good.
Trent: See you soon.
He pocketed the phone and headed toward the house just as the hospice nurse stepped out on the porch. “I thought I heard you come home.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She had a good afternoon. Didn’t eat much but tried. We talked for a bit—she was lucid, in good spirits."
“It sounds like there’s a but in there.”
"Her vitals are declining. Slowly, but steadily." She touched his arm, the gesture practiced but not unkind. "I know I've said this before, but—it's time to start thinking about final arrangements. Having those conversations while she's still able to participate in them."
He rubbed the back of his neck. “My mom’s always been a planner and she’s let me know what she wants.”
"Good. That's good, because she really doesn’t have much time left.” She squeezed his arm and let go. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Call if anything changes overnight."
He watched her stroll to her little SUV and drive away. He stood on the porch for a long moment, watching the sun bleed out over Mallor's Landing in shades of orange and copper, spilling across the water like something wounded.
The gators were settling in for the night, their dark shapes drifting through the moat like fallen logs come to life. Somewhere in the cypress stand, an owl called out—one low note, then silence.
Inside the house, his mother was sleeping. Or pretending to sleep. It was hard to tell the difference these days, and he'd stopped asking.
The sound of an engine tickled his ears. Seconds later, Dove’s truck rolled down the drive.
His heart beat a little faster as she emerged from her vehicle and walked across the bridge, glancing left and right, all while scrunching her forehead. It was adorable. The trained Army sniper, an expression of fear and awe sweeping across her face. It was rare for Dove to show any vulnerability, but he saw through her defenses. Through her tough exterior. They weren’t all that different, except he retreated, where she surrounded herself with people.
She appeared at the bottom of the steps, a plastic container in her hands and a careful smile. "I can't believe I'm bringing food to an alligator farm."
“Technically, the farm is the commercial side. This is a natural habitat.”
“That makes it worse. They’re wild, and you let them come live here by choice.
He chuckled. “They can’t get to the house.”
“Right, but I had to cross that damn bridge, and all I saw were eyes in the water. One of them opened their mouth,” she said, with a shudder. Lifting the container, she said, "Chicken and rice. Nothing fancy, but it’s good for the soul.”
Trent took the container, the heat of it seeping through the plastic into his palms. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know."
