“I was there. I was driving that car when we got T-Boned. Jack’s legs were pinned. He was unconscious. I tried to get him out, but the car was on fire and… and…” Slade turned away and rubbed his temples. “I was lucky. Broken bones. Burns.” He sighed and shook his head before turning back. “I’m not sure exhuming your father’s body will give my office any answers other than a dead man didn’t execute his kill order, but an innocent man died anyway, and I still failed at my job.”
“What else does this Parrish guy have that’s related to my father’s case?” Trent asked.
“Nothing really,” Slade said.
“Seems odd to want to exhume Jack’s body when the hit wasn’t completed,” Dove said. “And one of their own is a witness.”
“It’s all about verifying information.” Slade leaned over the table and took a swig of coffee. “I have no idea if you’d win if you fought it, but you could certainly delay it. I’d stand in your corner if you did. I’d give testimony on why we shouldn’t exhume the body because I was there when he died. But if you’re gonna do it, you need to do it now.”
“No offense, but it seems like a waste of time to fight it.” Dove patted Trent’s arm. “No matter how disturbing it is. And I don’t understand why you, of all people, want Trent to spend time and resources doing it.”
Slade sighed. “I'm just trying to save him some heartache, considering everything.”
“I do appreciate the thought.” Trent wished the anger would disappear, but it sat in the center of his gut, boiling. “While I don’t want my father’s remains disturbed, I don’t have the means to fight the government. Not when I’ve got Sovereign Resources wanting to mine in my backyard, and your ex-colleague doing backflips to make that happen. You want to help me, join that fight.”
“I haven’t spoken to Dutton in years, I'm happy to do a little digging, though,” Slade said. “But I hope you consider at least asking the court to hear why you don't want your dad exhumed.” He stretched out his arm.
Trent took his hand and shook. "I'll think about it."
“I’ll walk you to the door.” Dove squeezed Trent’s shoulder.
“Thanks. Those gators are quite the security system.”
Trent walked to the window above the sink and stared out at the moat, at the gators drifting through the dark water, at the cypress trees reaching toward a sky that was too blue and too bright for a morning that felt like the end of the world.
Behind him, he heard Slade's footsteps. The creak of the screen door. The click of it closing.
He heard Dove thank her uncle, and adding that next time, he needed to be more tactful and more honest from the get-go. Trent appreciated that. He appreciated everything about her. She reminded him of the air. Of the earth. Of the water. Of things that were just always there. Always right. Always what he needed.
And that scared the fucking shit out of him.
He poured himself another cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and snagged the newspaper. He needed to do something normal and reading the paper was just that.
Dove reappeared and leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not sure I understand my uncle right now, except that he feels strongly about this.”
Trent lifted his mug, took a long, slow sip and did a mental check of his bank account. It was pitiful. Mallor’s Landing wasn’t cheap to run. The business side made decent money, but he sank much of it into the natural wildlife habitat.
“I think fighting it would cost more than I could ever afford, and for what? I’d probably lose.” He grabbed a handful of napkins from the holder in the center of the table and mopped up the coffee he’d spilled earlier. Luckily, the newspaper was mostly out of the splash zone. He glanced up at Dove. “As much as I don’t want my father’s remains disturbed, if it means possibly bringing justice to those who betrayed him and those who he was fighting against, who am I to stop it. Not to mention, what little money I do have, I might need to use to fight Sovereign Resources.”
"I'm honestly surprised this is what my uncle wanted to discuss.” She strolled across the kitchen, opened the fridge, snagged some strawberries, and sat down next to him. “But I know that car crash changed him. Not just the crash, but the case he was working.”
Trent nodded absently at that, his attention snagged on something poking out from between the edges of the paper. Opening it, he stared at an envelope with his name written in curvy handwriting.
He turned it over in his hands and tore it open.
A photograph slid out with a yellow sticky note attached to it.
Mr. Mallor,
We have more where this came from. Sell us the property, or we send everything to the FWC and the police chief. You know what happens after that.
Beau & Emma Henderson
For the second time that morning, Trent slammed his fist on the table hard enough to rattle every mug in the kitchen.
“What the hell?”
He stared at the image of his equipment shed—the one on the main property. Not the processing shed on the alligator farm. The photo had been shot through the side window. The workbench was cluttered with knives and scrapers, and laid out across it, three alligator hides—raw, unprocessed, and not a single FWC tag in sight. Not that it mattered, because for him to keep all his permits, he couldn’t skin a gator on this part of his land. It all had to be done on the commercial side.
