“I called Karl’s bluff, and nothing happened. He went away. I barely saw him. It wasn’t until that day, a few weeks before my mother died, that he showed up at my house, telling me he had the opportunity of a lifetime. It was the same day my mom told me about the Hendersons’ offer.” Trent shifted his gaze, catching Dove’s blue eyes as the sun’s rays sparkled in the electric color. He cupped her face.
His mother used to tell him that the best kind of love—the love that lasts a lifetime—was the kind that snuck up on you and seeped into your bones like a warm summer day. Or a nice shot of tequila.
“If Dawson and Keaton can’t prove that someone tried to frame me for those gator skins and meat, I’m not only going to lose all my permits and possibly my land, I could go to?—”
She covered his mouth with her palm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He curled his fingers around her wrist and kissed her hand. “Not this time, but that doesn’t mean they can turn a blind eye to what I’ve done in the past.”
“It’s gonna be okay.”
He wished he could believe that. He stood there for a beat, then started walking again. "Alright," he said. "Let's find out what everyone has.”
Inside, Buddy was behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Sterling sat across the room at his own desk, boots crossed at the ankles, something on his laptop holding his attention.
“Afternoon.” Buddy looked up and waved a hand over his head. “Everyone’s down the hall waiting. Sterling and I have more research to do. Cullen has everything Sterling and I know, but I'll join you in a bit.”
“Before you head into the conference room,” Sterling said. “I heard back from my contact at the CIA. He said the information the marshals and the feds have on Parrish is locked up tight, and they've kept that circle real small. The only thing I learned is that there’s some information in that cache that’s damaging to some powerful players. Until they sort through it, they aren't giving anything up.” Sterling raised his hand when Trent opened his mouth. "I asked about your dad's case, and I got a beat of silence. That tells me there's a connection. Not sure what it is, but I'll keep digging."
“I don't know how to repay you for doing all this,” Trent said.
"It's what we do for family." Buddy pointed toward the hallway. "They're waiting for you."
Dove took Trent by the hand and led him down the hall towards the conference room.
It was a modest space with a rectangular table, eight chairs, and a credenza along the wall with a coffee station. A box of doughnuts sat in the center of the table beside a plate of muffins that had Fallon written all over them.
Keaton sat on the far side, patient and still, the way a man got after spending years in the military.
Fallon was beside him, notebook open. She glanced up, tilted her head, and pursed her lips like she always did when she was disappointed.
Trent couldn't blame her for that. He was disappointed in himself.
Cullen was next to her with his arms crossed and a manila envelope in front of him. He’d gotten another haircut, and he’d been keeping his facial hair respectable. He looked good. Not like the broken man who’d come home a few years ago and jumped at the sound of an engine backfiring.
At the head of the table was Dawson, who offered him a smile, but it didn’t stop Trent from feeling like he was back in the interrogation room at the police station. On the table in front of Dawson was a closed folder.
Dove poured two cups of coffee from the credenza, handed one to Trent, and they took their seats across from Cullen, Fallon, and Keaton.
“We’ve had a busy day since we left Mallor’s Landing, so let's get started.” Dawson wasn’t the kind of man who liked to waste time. "Keaton. Fallon. Go."
“We found seven pythons on the property,” Keaton said. "Total, including the one Trent put down. All Burmese. All healthy. All wild.”
“Also all male," Fallon added. She looked at Trent, and her features softened just a little. “Not a single female in the bunch.”
The number sat in the room like something alive. "Males don't congregate like that," Trent said. "Not without a reason. And the only thing that draws that many into one area is a breeding female. Or female pheromones."
Dawson reached beneath the table and held up a clear evidence bag. Inside was a mesh bag, darkened with residue, about the size of a grapefruit. “Keaton found this floating in the reeds, tucked up good. It was down on the very southern tip of your land. The substance tested positive for female Burmese python pheromones."
So there it was.
Not migration. Not nature doing something unpredictable. Someone had walked his land—his family's land, the land his father had bled for, the land his mother had watched the sun set over from the old dock every evening of her life—and turned it into a killing field.
"We only found the one bag, and that might have been all it took depending on how they contaminated the land,” Keaton said. “The distribution pattern of where we located the snakes suggests there were likely more lure points across the property."
"I walked the rest of the acreage right after the incident,” Trent said. "No signs of any bags or more snakes. But I'll keep at it."
Dawson set the evidence bag on the table. "We'll get this processed, but you mentioned the night you had intruders, they were carrying something. Do you remember the size?”
