"It's not a date." Harley shoved her credit card slip into her pocket. "We're just friends. He wanted someone to talk to who isn't going to psychoanalyze him every five minutes or ask him how he's feeling about things. I don’t need to deal with people’s emotions. I talk about boats, mangroves, and whether the mullet are running. It's refreshing, apparently."
"Whatever you say,” Baily said.
"It's not—" Harley made a sound of pure frustration. "You're impossible. You know that? Absolutely impossible."
"It's part of my charm. Fletcher says so all the time."
“Your husband also thinks mayonnaise belongs on a hot dog, so I'm not sure his judgment should be trusted."
Dove bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and stepped up to the counter. Both women turned, Harley looking relieved at the interruption and Baily looking like Christmas had come early, bringing a second present.
"Well, well, well." Baily straightened up, her grin somehow widening even further. She glanced between Dove and Harley with an expression of pure, delighted mischief. "Please tell me you're here to talk about your love life, too. I'm on a roll."
"I don't have one of those," Dove said automatically.
"Sure you don't." Baily leaned back against the cigarette display. "And Harley here doesn't have a thing for our local handyman, part-time construction worker and Aegis Network employee with PTSD and cheekbones that could cut glass."
“Believe what you want, but it doesn’t make it true,” Harley muttered.
“I know I’m right, but I’ll drop it for now.” Baily turned her attention back to Dove. "So what brings you in? Don't tell me you need bait. You don't strike me as the fishing type."
“Actually, I was looking for Cullen. His Uncle Silas told me I could find him here.”
Harley's expression shifted—not quite guarded, but more careful than it had been a moment ago. "He's down at the dock. Slip eight. Hosing down his boat.”
“Thanks.” Dove pushed from the counter.
“Mind if I ask what this is all about?” Harley asked.
“Just some weird stuff has been happening around Trent’s place, and I’m worried it might have to do with an old buddy of his. A guy by the name of Karl Simpson,” Dove said. “They all went to high school together, and I just want to pick Cullen’s brain.”
“Karl is nothing but trouble,” Baily said. “We won’t extend him credit at the marina anymore because we’ve had trouble with him paying. Keaton and Fallon both have had to give him tickets for different things. Karl has been running on smiles and acting like a good person by doing nice things, but people are starting to smarten up.”
“I’ve seen that in action.” Harley shook her head. “He’s tried to help me out on the river a few times, but then it’s all about turning my head when he’s doing something he’s not supposed to. I’ve called Keaton about Karl. Not sure if Keaton was able to bust him, though.”
“I have no idea why Karl keeps fishing in places he’s not supposed to, but he’s also doing other shit,” Baily said. “Like skirting the rules during the Python challenge. That really gets under my husband’s skin.”
“I imagine it would.” Dove took it all in, filing away the info in various places. It seemed everyone had Karl's number, but he hadn’t crossed that line, or hadn’t gotten caught, where people would completely turn their backs.
Except for maybe now. But this wasn’t her story to repeat, and she’d made a promise that for now, she wouldn’t tell anyone about the note.
“I'd better go find Cullen before it gets too late,” Dove said.
“Make sure you say hello to Trent.” Baily smiled.
Dove groaned as she turned on her heels and strolled across the room. She didn’t say another word or glance over her shoulder. No way was she sticking around to have her and Trent’s on-and-off whatever-it-was dissected by Baily and Haley.
Dove stepped outside. The docks stretched out over the water like arthritic fingers. Weathered wood that had gone gray from decades of salt and sun. Most of the slips were empty this time of day—the serious fishermen had come and gone with the dawn, and the sunset crowd wouldn't start trickling in for another hour or so. A great blue heron stood motionless at the end of the far pier, its stillness so complete it might have been carved from stone, waiting with infinite patience for something stupid enough to swim within range.
Dove found Cullen standing on the dock next to slip eight with a hose in one hand and a long-handled brush in the other. He worked methodically along the deck of his boat—a twenty-foot skiff that had seen better days but was clearly well-maintained.
He looked up as Dove approached, squinting against the glare off the water. He was the same age as Trent. He was fit but lean, with a weathered build from physical labor and too many years of not eating enough. His dark hair was shaggy, curling over his ears and the back of his neck, and there was a stillness to him that she recognized. The hyperawareness of someone whose nervous system had been rewired by trauma and was still learning how to exist in a world where not everything was a threat.
“Hey Dove.” He shut off the hose and straightened, rolling his shoulders in a way that suggested they ached. “What brings you down here?” He tossed the brush into a bucket and wiped his hands on shorts that had probably been blue once upon a time but had faded to something closer to gray. He grabbed a water bottle from the dock and took a long drink, studying her over the rim. “More work from the Aegis Network? Because that would be great. Decker Brown is still doing that big construction project on the West side of the state, and I just can’t be that far from my kid now that I get to see him, even if it is supervised visitation.”
“Sterling has a new case he needs surveillance for. He’ll be in touch. It’s straightforward. Local. And I need more than information on this one. Buddy said we can pay you the same as when you protected Fallon.”
“That works for me.” He sat down on the skiff’s bench. “So, what can I help you with?”
