Page 124 of Shatter

"Pierce." My voice comes out flat. "You said Panama City."

"Change of plans." He doesn't look at me. "Desmond texted. He wants to meet somewhere more private."

"Where?" My voice barely makes it out.

He doesn't answer.

Apalachicola, ninety minutes down the coast.

A column of numbers on a spreadsheet, refrigerated containers going the wrong way every month for nearly three years.

Sawgrass Point Seafood.

The air in the car goes thin.

"Pierce." I turn in my seat and stare at him. "Where are we going?"

His hands tighten on the wheel until his knuckles go white.

"It's going to be okay." His voice cracks down the middle. "Anni, I swear to you, it's going to be okay."

"You knew." My fingers dig into the seat. "You knew the entire time. Panama City, the lawyer, all of it. You made it up."

"I didn't have a choice." He swipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"Mom's heart." It comes out of me cracked and strange. "The hospital picture. You made that up too."

He flinches.

He doesn't deny it.

I reach for the door handle.

The locks thunk down, all four of them, before my fingers close around it.

My hand stays curled on the handle, useless, pulling at nothing.

I turn and look at my brother.

He's staring straight ahead through the windshield with tears running down his face, and he doesn't slow down.

***

Sawgrass Point Seafood sits at the end of a crushed-shell road on a spit of land with water on three sides.

The sun's coming up over the bay, pink and gold, laying a long bright road across the flat water, and it's the prettiest sunrise I've ever seen.

It makes me want to throw up.

A long, low metal building with a peeling sign.

Docks running out into the water, with shrimp boats tied up along them, nets drawn up like wings.

Mountains of oyster shells, white and gray, bleaching in the sun.

And along the side of the building, backed up to a row of loading bays, four white refrigerated trailers with their engines humming.

Reefers.