The smell hit Trent first. He knew that scent. Had lived it his entire life. Fresh blood and fat and the sharp, faintly sweet odor of green meat—that particular combination that had lived in Trent's bones from a lifetime of processing it. It was mostly associated with the commercial side of this land and business. The unglamorous reality of what it took to keep Mallor's Landing funded and breathing. It was a smell that, if he were on the other side of the property, would’ve been normal.
But not coming from this shed.
He leaned past Dawson's shoulder and his stomach dropped straight through the floor. Tears burned his eyes.
Two gators. Laid out on his workbench. Decent-sized animals—eight, maybe nine feet—already skinned, the hides peeled clean and hanging from the ceiling, the meat broken down and portioned with the kind of efficiency that took years to develop. No FWC tags. No paperwork. Nothing but the raw evidence of a transaction that hadn't happened yet.
He’d killed many alligators over the course of his life. It was part of his job. Part of his business. He raised gators specifically for this reason—skins and meat to be sold. But there was a difference between wild gators and farm-raised ones.
His gaze stayed on the skins, moving from one to the next, and his pulse damn near stopped at the second skin.
He knew that animal.
Not by name—because that one never stayed long enough for him to get to know and contrary to popular belief, these creatures did have personalities.
But he had the markings. The slight broadening at the base of the skull, the particular distribution of the scute rows down the back, the old scar along the left flank that had been there since the gator had first sunned himself near the waterline.
This gator had been coming to the bay since Trent was in high school, drifting in and out of Mallor's Landing the way certain animals did when a place felt safe—taking nothing, threatening no one, just existing in the water with the permanence of something that had decided this patch of the Everglades suited him just fine.
He'd eaten more than a few of Trent's chicken quarters over the years—not by hand, but the ones that Trent laid out for the gators who found their way to this sanctuary and looked as though they could use a good meal.
"Those aren't mine." The words came out quieter than he intended. Not defensive. Just true. "I didn't do this. I swear this wasn’t me.”
Dawson turned to look at him. He studied Trent's face for a moment—long enough that he felt the weight of it, and that made him more than nervous. Dawson had come to town a few years ago—an ex-Navy SEAL and good friend of Fletcher Dane, Baily’s husband. At first, Dawson made Trent nervous. Then again, anyone who carried a badge made Trent twitch.
But Dawson had grown on Trent.
“I believe you.” Dawson placed his hands on his hips and sighed. “But I can’t ignore what my eyes are seeing.”
"The people who just shot at us. They came out of this shed,” Dove screeched.
"I know that, too." Dawson nodded.
“How can you know that?” Trent's hands curled at his sides. He stared at the second hide—at the scar along the flank—and tried to swallow the thing climbing up the back of his throat. Grief, yes. But under the grief, quieter and more insidious, something that felt too much like rage. The kind of rage that could destroy him if he wasn't careful.
“I got an anonymous tip about the same time Buddy texted me that you and Dove were being shot at,” Dawson said.
Gravel crunched in the driveway.
Trent glanced out the window. A Fish and Wildlife truck pulled up and parked at the edge of the yard, and Keaton Cole stepped out—all six feet of him. He had a military bearing that twenty years in the field couldn't be shaken no matter how long he'd been out. He scanned the scene before his door was fully closed. He'd hadn’t grown up in the Glades, but he’d come to Calusa Cove the same way Dawson had—with Fletcher. And Keaton had made this place his home in more ways than one.
“Let’s step outside.” Dawson waved his hand toward the door.
Dove rested her hand on Trent’s elbow as she gently guided him through the door.
He glanced down as his feet squished into the grass. He was still barefoot.
“Good morning.” Keaton looped his fingers in his belt.
“What brings you here?” Dove asked. Trent was grateful because his mouth was so dry he couldn’t form words.
“Someone called the FWC hotline claiming you're dealing gator skins and meat out on Mallor's Landing.” Keaton tilted his head. “I’m sorry, but I had to check it out.
“I find it interesting that Dawson got a similar tip the same morning two assholes were lurking around on my property and then shot at Dove and me.” Trent looped a protective arm around Dove, pulling her tight to his side. “I’ve got a bullet hole in my boat to prove it.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that there are two gators skinned and chopped in that shed,” Dawson said. “With no tags.”
“This is bullshit,” Dove muttered. “Trent didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve been with him for the last few days. Twenty-four-seven. What’s in that shed is fresh. No way could he have done that.”
