“I wonder what they were looking for,” Trent asked from behind her. His voice was low, careful.
"Your guess is as good as mine." Dove scanned the chaos—systematic, grid-pattern, cataloging details without dwelling on any single one. The file cabinet had four drawers. All four had been emptied. The desk drawers, too—three of them, all pulled out and dumped. The bookshelf above the desk had been swept clean, with reference manuals, binders, and loose papers cascading down like an avalanche frozen mid-fall.
But it was the folders that drew her attention.
Some were closed. Some were open. And some were open and empty.
She stepped closer, careful not to touch anything, and read the labels on the folders nearest to her feet. Case numbers. Names she didn't recognize. Dates going back years, decades. Her uncle's career distilled into paper and ink and the quiet bureaucratic language of law enforcement.
Then she saw it.
A manila folder lay on the floor near the overturned desk chair, splayed open like a book. The label, written in her uncle's precise block letters, read: MALLOR, JACK—GULF COAST ENERGY PARTNERS.
Empty.
“Jesus,” Trent whispered behind her. “Looks like whoever trashed this place got what they wanted.”
She crouched down, hands on her knees, and stared at the folder. The tab was creased, the edges soft from handling, the kind of wear that said this file had been opened and closed many times. But whatever had been inside it was gone. Every page. Every document. Every note her uncle had kept about a case that was twenty years old and supposedly dead.
“Unless he took the contents to protect them, which is what I would’ve done.” She straightened and looked around the office again, counting. Three other folders she could see were also open and empty. Different labels but related to Jack’s case. “The other files all have to do with Gulf Coast Energy Partners and Armond Jackson.”
Trent inched closer and bent down.
She grabbed his arm. “We can't touch anything," she said, pulling her phone from her pocket. "This is a crime scene."
She pulled out her cell phone and called Corrick.
He answered on the second ring, his voice carrying the strained patience of a man who hadn't slept and was running on caffeine and duty. "Miss Quinn."
"We're at my uncle's place in Fort Lauderdale. The front door was kicked in. The house has been tossed. Every room.”
"Are you safe? Is the location secure?" Corrick asked.
"We cleared the house. No one's here. But his office is destroyed. Files everywhere.”
"I'll contact Fort Lauderdale PD. I’m getting in my vehicle. Ten minutes out,” he said.
“See you when you get here.” She hung up and looked at Trent. He was standing over his father’s empty folder, arms crossed, with an expression she couldn't quite read. Not anger. Not fear. Something older. Something that lived in the place where a fourteen-year-old boy had watched his father drive away for the last time, never understanding why.
"Come on," she said. "We should wait outside."
They stepped onto the front stoop, and Dove didn’t bother shutting the door. The street was quiet. Modest homes with neat lawns and cars in driveways and the distant sound of a lawnmower somewhere down the block. Normal. Suburban. The kind of neighborhood where people waved at each other and complained about HOA fees and assumed the worst thing that would ever happen was someone parking in the wrong spot.
She sat on the top step. Trent lowered himself beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. The afternoon sun was brutal, pressing down on them like a hand, and the concrete was hot through her jeans. She didn't care. The heat felt good. Real. Something to focus on besides the inside of that house. She pressed her palms against her knees, fingers splayed and stared at the pavement. "He didn't talk to me about his work. And I couldn’t talk to him about my work. It was all classified, compartmentalized.”
“I understand that,” Trent said. “What bothers me are all the coincidences. All the ways this just falls into place. Add in the weird shit that’s been happening. The person at my mom’s funeral. The snakes. The Hendersons and their threat. Fucking Karl. It all has to be connected somehow. But I can’t for the life of me figure it out.”
“There’s a thread there, and it all comes back to what someone might want Mallor’s Landing for.”
“Karl’s an opportunistic asshole. If he sees a paycheck, he’ll do almost anything,” Trent said. “Mallor’s Landing is unique because of the two distinct aspects—commercial and natural habitat. But it’s not easy to run. Fish and Wildlife has to inspect both properties to make sure they don’t mix. There’s licensing for the business, permits for both sides. In some ways, it’s a logistical nightmare, and I nearly destroyed it all when I was being a young, angry jerk.” He ran a hand over his face. “I still might have, considering what the Hendersons have. But I can’t imagine anyone wants both the business and the habitat. If it weren’t for my father and grandfather's long-lasting relationship with this community, and my ability to turn my shit around, it wouldn’t work at all.”
She snapped her head toward him. “Doesn’t mean Karl, the Hendersons, and whoever else is involved won’t have plans.”
A dark sedan turned onto the street and pulled up behind Trent's truck. Corrick stepped out—tall, lean, early sixties, wearing a suit that looked like it had been slept in and a face that confirmed it. He carried himself like a man who'd spent his career in rooms where the stakes were life and death, and he’d long ago stopped being surprised by either.
"Miss Quinn."
“You can call me Dove,” she said. “This is Trent Mallor.”
