“I did, too. Owns a salvage company.”
“And has three mortgages on a beachfront house, two ex-wives, and was pulled over two years ago for a DUI but he beat itand had it expunged from the public record. But not the private one.”
She let out a soft laugh. “I forgot you have access to something a little more powerful than Google. So he needs money and has friends in high places.”
Peter shrugged. “One enemy, though. Natalie Cartwright.”
“Who is?”
“A young pistol who is on the board of the Destin History and Fishing Museum.”
She shook her head, conjuring up a mental image of the place. “That little brick building on Stahlman? I always thought it was like a fishing-themed shell shop.”
“No, it’s the closest thing Destin has to a historical society,” he said. “They preserve and honor the history of the area, specifically waterways and fishing-related areas.”
“How do you know this Natalie woman is his enemy?”
Peter hesitated, then said, “Also not on the record.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“She filed a formal objection when the bridge was flagged for review,” he said. “She complained that the bridge qualified as a cultural landmark under county guidelines. She requested a pause, but it got dismissed, ignored, and swept under the rug by…individuals with more power.”
“Who are probably all sporting their own Patek watches right now,” she muttered.
He lifted a shoulder. “Welcome to small-town politics—graft, corruption, and buried files. I found a deputy’s summary from a zoning meeting. Quinn called her ‘a nuisance’ and said she was ‘holding the town hostage with history no one cared about.’”
Vivien felt something settle into place. “I like her already.”
“I like anyone who can’t be bought,” Peter said. “She probably knows more about how this got pushed through.”
The bartender asked again if they wanted a drink, but Peter shook his head. Then he glanced toward the door. “You okay to head out? It’s loud in here.”
“Sure,” she said lightly. “Lead the way, Detective. Pretty sure Moneybags picked up this tab.”
Outside, the evening had softened into gold and navy. The harbor lights blinked on one by one, reflected in ribbons across the water. The sound of steel drums drifted from somewhere behind them, mingling with the slap of waves against docked boats.
They walked along the boardwalk, passing families licking ice cream cones, a street guitarist plucking something nostalgic, couples on dates.
Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, and Vivien silently put her hopes of “the” conversation to bed.
They stopped at a railing where a narrow pier jutted out over the harbor, taking a moment to inhale the scent of fried shrimp and brackish water.
“You okay?” she asked gently.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m fine, but you’re not.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Connor’s broken wrist is…an issue.”
Her heart dipped. “What? Why?”
“We saw an orthopedic specialist this afternoon, which is why I was late.”
“And…”
“He confirmed what we knew—a fractured distal radius, a hairline clavicle fracture. But he added something—a brachial plexus stretch injury from the impact.”
