Chapter Nineteen
EMERY
I’M ALREADY HALFWAY out the door when Reid’s text comes through telling me not to go down there today.
It startles me, sending a wave of panic straight through to my bones.
I don’t think I’ve done anything to attract negative attention yet.
I want so badly to ask him why, but our last exchange was hot and then contentious and now I don’t know where we stand.
I hop in my skiff, deciding that checking on my traps and tagged turtles is better than sitting around worrying about things I can’t control.
I didn’t sleep much last night after Reid left.
I can’t remember a time when I’ve wanted someone as badly as I wanted him in that moment.
He’s grouchy and bossy and annoying as hell, and for some reason, I find that appealing. But I’m frustrated.
The first day he took me out in the marsh, he knew all about the turtles.
He even seemed to care about them. So why doesn’t he see the importance of it now?
If their habitat is compromised, if they’re being hurt or killed, that should matter to him.
He is the one who grew up in these marshes, learning the back bays and estuaries.
Watching wildlife. I thought he was as invested as I am, but maybe I’m wrong.
That leads me to wonder, if he’s not invested in these animals, why is he spending so much time with me out here? I want to believe it’s because he likes me, but when he keeps storming out, I think I’m kidding myself. This is nothing more than physical attraction and a rebound for me.
I kill the engine when I reach the nesting area and paddle to my traps.
I hurl the first one over the side of the skiff, but I quickly see that it’s empty.
I row to the next one, coming up empty there too.
Nothing but a few crabs and a couple of bait fish.
This is odd, as I usually have at least one juvenile in the traps. I frown, resetting it.
When I reach the third trap, I know something is amiss. It’s completely untouched, no turtles, no bycatch, not even the usual marsh crabs. It’s like the area’s been purposely cleared out. A gnawing feeling fills my gut. Something isn’t right here.
I pull the receiver out of my canvas backpack, stained with marsh water, and sweep the antenna around in a slow circle.
A few turtles ping back faintly, but several that have been tagged in the last week, aren’t moving.
In fact, it looks like they’re in exactly the same cluster they were in 48 hours ago.
“That’s weird,” I murmur to myself, chewing on my lip. Terrapins are very active feeders and almost never stay that still. Unless something is wrong. My throat tightens and suddenly, my whole body knows something is wrong.
I put the receiver away, pull out my camera, and stand in the small boat to take in my surroundings.
There’s an oil sheen on the surface near the mouth of an adjoining creek, too far inshore to be from commercial traffic.
I snap a photo. The mud along the bank shows deep ruts, like something heavy was dragged over it or a boat got stuck at low tide.
Snap. Perhaps the most alarming thing is the reed bed that looks flattened, trampled, like a boat pushed through where it shouldn’t fit.
I plop down in my seat and dig through my notes from each of my marsh visits.
My heart sinks. The missing pings line up with the discreet back routes that still lead out to the main channel.
The ones I take nearly every morning before dawn.
And almost exactly where Trixie was found yesterday.
It’s not proof of anything specific, but now I know, something is disturbing my turtles.
My mind is spinning as I tug on the choke, restarting my engine.
I race my little skiff through the marsh faster than I ever have back to my cottage.
After kicking off my waders on the screened porch, I take the fastest shower of my life, powering up my laptop while I’m still in my towel.
A knock on the front door startles me. I’m not dressed, so I duck out of eyesight, peering out the back kitchen window.
There are no vehicles. Whoever it is, they must have come here on foot.
Reid wouldn’t wait this long. He’d be calling for me by now, or he’d probably just walk in.
“Maybe she really is sick in bed,” one of the voices says from beyond the door. Male for sure. Maybe older.
“I guess so,” the other voice agrees. This one is also male, but a higher pitch.
“Let’s go. We don’t want to disturb her.” I hear footsteps retreating and the slam of the screen door.
My breath catches as I peer out the window. Two men, identical builds, about thirty years apart, trek back through the trees. Who the hell are they, and what do they want with me?
I hurry, throwing on clothes, before racing for my phone, quickly tapping out a text to Reid.
Me: Two men just knocked on my door. I didn’t answer.
Reid: Good. Stay put.
Nerves run through me, but I do as he says. Except I refuse to forget about the turtles. They feel like they’re mine now.
Moving back to the table, I sync my receiver with my laptop and plot the turtle pings onto my digital map. That’s when I really see it—the gaps are glaring. There are clusters where turtles should be spread out and blank spaces where I should be getting signals.
I don’t even hesitate this time. I need someone who understands evidence—how to separate noise from pattern, coincidence from cause.
Someone who won’t tell me I’m overreacting just because the conclusion is uncomfortable.
I pick up my phone and dial Alan. We haven’t spoken since I arrived, and I sure have a lot to tell him.
“Emery!” he says when he answers, his voice bright. “I was wondering when I might hear from you.”
I let out a low laugh. “Yeah, sorry. I kind of went off the grid.”
“You’re allowed to. How are things? How are you liking Tidehaven?” Alan peppers me with questions, his excitement palpable.
“Well, I found something…concerning. And I need your take.” I suck in a breath.
“Start at the beginning,” he says, his tone turning serious.
I pace across the cottage, the floor creaking beneath me. “Yesterday, I recovered a turtle with a cut tag. Not shed. Cut. There was residue on the shell. I ran it at the lab.” I swallow. “It came back positive for cocaine.”
Alan is silent for a beat. Then, “Cocaine?”
“Yes. Presumptively, of course.” My voice cracks on it.
I push on. “And this morning my traps were empty. Not unusual, except…my tagged turtles aren’t moving.
Three of them have been clustered in one location for two days.
Another hasn’t pinged since last night. And the spots line up with side creeks that could easily be used for—”
“Drug routes,” he finishes, his tone grave.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I drop onto the edge of the couch, gripping the phone tighter. “I’ve got data. Patterns that don’t make sense otherwise. This isn’t natural behavior. Something is harming my turtles.”
I hear his heavy sigh through the line. I picture him leaning back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Emery, if what you’re telling me is accurate, this isn’t just a research problem. It’s a law enforcement problem.”
“I know.” My voice comes out quieter. “That’s why I’m calling. What should I do?”
“Keep gathering data. Document everything—photos, logs, metadata. Don’t make accusations without proof. And Emery—” His voice dips lower, like he’s trying to anchor me. “Please be careful.”
I let out a sigh. “I’m trying to be, but—”
Alan cuts me off. “If your evidence is strong enough, we can push it to Fish & Wildlife or the DEA. But not yet. Right now, you’re a scientist. Do what you do best—collect the truth.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”
“Good.” His voice softens. “And Emery? Call me anytime. I’m here for whatever you need.”
I let out a grateful laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
When the call ends, I stare down at my phone, heart pounding. His advice was measured, rational, safe. But my chest is tight, my throat hot, because waiting feels the same as enabling.
I sit at the edge of the bed, the glow from my laptop still painting maps and notes across the screen.
My notebook lies open, pages filled with clusters and red circles, arrows that only I understand.
Tomorrow the council will hear me, whether they want to or not. Like it or not, I’ll be ready for them.
I get to work, preparing a presentation that will hopefully make every citizen of Tidehaven care about the marsh like I do.
I work for hours organizing my data and notes in layman’s terms, missing lunch and only stopping for a bowl of cereal for dinner.
Before I know it, it’s nine p.m. I close the laptop, the silence of my cottage suddenly overpowering.
I glance at my phone one more time, thumb hovering over Reid’s name.
Nothing. Not a text, not a call. Just silence.
I tell myself I don’t need him to stand beside me. But as I turn out the light, the lie hangs heavy in the dark.