Chapter Twenty-Three
EMERY
WE’RE QUIET ON the ride back to the cottage, no sound except for the hum of Reid’s truck and the quiet rush of summer air through his cracked window.
“You can stay at my place, you know,” Reid tells me, throwing a glance my way.
The last streaks of sunset have bled out over the marsh, turning the starry sky into indigo. Everything looks softer, but it feels more dangerous somehow.
I don’t answer as he pulls in, the motion light flickering with the movement of his truck. It casts an ugly yellow glow on the words defacing the side of the house: LEAVE. My chest tightens.
The night is quiet and still, the kind of silence that hums with something underneath. The marsh is awake with the sounds of frogs, cicadas and other insects in the air, the occasional sound of moving water. But beneath it, there’s a heavier sort of quiet—the kind that waits for you.
Reid cuts the engine, and the silence overwhelms me. My pulse thrums in my ears.
“Emery, did you hear me? I said you’re welcome to stay at my place,” Reid says quietly. I look over at him.
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
Neither of us moves. The truck ticks as it cools down, the smell of salt air and pine thick between us. I should thank him. Tell him good night. Oh, how I don’t want to tell him good night. Instead, I reach for the door handle but hesitate.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Can I ask you something?”
Reid turns toward me, his shoulders tense. “Yeah.”
“The other day I was in the marsh, adjusting my transmitter.” I pause, eyes flicking toward the marsh. “I saw a man watching me. Near my traps.”
Reid stills, his jaw tight. “Watching how?”
I shrug, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “Just standing there. Half-hidden in the grass. I waved, said hello. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me for a second and walked off.”
Silence stretches for a brief moment.
“What did he look like?” he finally asks.
“Dark shirt. Boots. Mid-thirties maybe? It was hard for me to tell.” She gives a small, self-conscious laugh. “I know it’s probably nothing but now with this.” I gesture to the word on the side of my house, then shake my head. “I’m probably just imagining it.”
His gaze stays locked on mine, intense enough that my smile fades.
“And he didn’t approach you?” he asks.
“No. That’s the weird part.” I shake my head. “He just…left.” I study his face now, searching for some kind of reaction.
“How long ago?” he asks, and I catch the edge beneath his calm.
“It was the same day we argued. Before the meeting.” A flicker of concern passes through me. “I should have told you.”
“It’s okay,” he says, but his tone is careful and controlled.
I smile, trying to ease whatever tension I’ve stirred. “I figured it was just a local.”
“Probably,” he agrees.
Silence falls over us again, and Reid starts the engine. I decide that’s my cue to go and reach for the door handle.
“Emery,” he says, his voice raw.
I glance back.
“Lock up.” Reid’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
“I will,” I promise.
I slide out of his truck, and the night wraps around me like a sauna. I trudge up the front steps, the planks creaking, feeling Reid’s eyes on me the whole way.
The porch light flickers, swarms of tiny insects floating around it. I glance back just before opening the door. Reid’s still watching, one arm draped across the passenger seat. I give him a tiny wave and he nods.
Inside, the cottage is just how I left it. It smells like lemon soap and the chemical scent of cool air from the window unit. Safe. For now, anyway. But as I turn and lock the door, my eyes catch on the marsh, the water black in the night.
And as the quiet presses in, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is out there, waiting for me to turn off the light.
I MAKE IT through the night, but not without anxiety.
Sleep comes in shallow bursts, every sound jolting me awake, convincing me someone’s outside my window.
By dawn, I’ve given up pretending to rest. For the first time since I got here, I really consider leaving.
Maybe this isn’t worth it—my safety, my sanity.
But then I think about my work. How maybe Kayla and I are the only ones who care enough to notice what’s happening.
And the alternative—going back to academia, to the sterile halls, and a relationship that barely had a pulse—feels worse.
Whatever this thing is between Reid and me, real or imagined, the idea of walking away before I find out terrifies me more than staying.
I throw the covers back just after seven before digging through my drawers for a pair of cut-offs and a dingy university tee.
Throwing my hair in a messy knot on top of my head, I fill a bucket with hot soapy water.
I find a large, stained sponge under the kitchen sink and briefly wonder what Dr. Young was scrubbing before she passed.
Grabbing my air pods, I queue up some angry rap and set off to scrub the side of my house.
My arms ache by the time the last of the brown letters fade into streaky white two hours later.
The siding still bears a faint shadow where the paint sank in, visible only when the sun hits it just right.
I swipe at it with the sponge one last time, my breath coming hard, my wrists raw from angry scrubbing.
It’s cleaner but not gone. The word still lingers, just quieter now. But I’m not leaving.
Inside, I grab a yogurt and a bottle of water before collapsing onto the couch to call Lena.
It’s Saturday. My only plan is to pull my turtle traps this afternoon and strip the remaining tags from any I find.
Maybe it’ll prove that I’m not a threat.
Maybe if they see I’ve backed off, they’ll leave me alone.
I can’t lose sight of why I came here—to figure out what’s next.
To finish a paper that might earn me a grant.
To decide if I even belong in academia anymore.
I dial Lena and she answers on the first ring.
“Girl! You left me hanging the other night. What the hell is going on there?”
I sigh, sinking into the lumpy cushion. “If you knew, you’d flip out.”
Silence for a beat, then, “Try me.”
I hesitate, debating whether or not to mention the murder in the marsh. Deciding against it, I tread lightly. “I’m surprised Alan didn’t fill you in.”
Lena snorts. “Alan barely tells me when the coffee is out in the break room. Spill it.”
“It seems my research has potentially uncovered a cocaine running route.” I wait for her reaction.
“Shit,” Lena breathes. “Did you tell anyone?”
I swallow the sudden tightness in my throat. “That’s the thing. Alan told me not to yet.”
“But you did, didn’t you?” I can hear the smirk in her voice.
“I couldn’t help it. I love the turtles,” I admit, my voice wavering.
“But?” Lena presses.
I exhale. “But now I’ve made myself a target. Someone spray painted the word leave on the side of my house.”
“Geez, Emery.” Her voice goes quiet. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m pulling my traps this afternoon. Then I’ll lay low.”
Lena pauses and I imagine her curled up on her couch with her Saturday morning cup of coffee, her toddlers playing on the floor. “Em, have you thought about coming home? If you’re in real danger, maybe you should.”
“I can’t. Jason and I are done. I need the space to figure out what’s next.” I rub my temples. “I just need time.”
“You can figure it out here. Stay with us,” Lena insists gently. Her offer is kind, but something tells me staying in a house with her, her husband, and their small children, would not offer the kind of quiet I came here for.
“I’ll keep it in mind, Leen. Thank you,” I say, knowing her offer is genuine.
“So, who was the guy you were fighting with?” Lena’s voice turns sultry, like she’s fishing for the juicy gossip.
“Ha!” I bark out a laugh. “Reid. A grumpy, ex-Navy SEAL who needs to mind his own damn business,” I mutter. Then I immediately feel guilty. I don’t want Reid to mind his own business and the truth is, I’ve done nothing but depend on him since I got here.
Lena giggles. “Is he hot?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Ahhh, so he is hot,” Lena teases.
“You must’ve missed the part where I said he’s grumpy too.”
“Maybe you need a grumpy rebound,” Lena suggests, and I can hear her smile.
“Okay, no. Enough about me. Talk to me about what’s going on with you.”
As Lena starts rambling about how the baby walked this week and the three-year-old dropped an F-bomb, my mind drifts. Maybe I do need a grumpy rebound.
But what if I don’t want it to be a rebound at all?
I’M CLIMBING INTO my skiff in the late afternoon when my phone rings. Reid.
I settle myself on the tiny bench seat and tap the screen. “Hey,” I say, cautiously, knowing he’s going to insist on coming out here with me.
“What are you doing? I haven’t heard from you all day.” His tone is sharp, edged with irritation.
“I was busy. I scrubbed the side of the house, called my best friend, watched a little Netflix.” I push a loose strand of hair off my sweaty forehead.
“You should share your location with me,” Reid suggests, his tone lower now with the kind of calm that’s worse than anger.
“Respectfully, hell fucking no.” I laugh in an attempt to diffuse him. “Are you insane?”
“Emery, this is serious.”
“I know, Reid. I’m going to pull my traps now and remove the tags from whatever turtles I can find, okay?” My patience with him is thinning.
“Good. Glad you’re giving up on this.”
“I’m not giving up. I am just lying low for a while.” I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear and give the choke a good tug.
Reid must hear it. “You’re already out there?”
“Yes. I waited for later in the day. Less chance of anyone watching.”
“Wait for me. I’m coming with you,” Reid orders.
“Again, respectfully, no. I’m going to be a while, and I need to get started.” I tap the speaker button and steer toward the marsh that is as familiar to me now as the back of my hand. The afternoon sun hangs low, a burnt orange sinking behind the reeds. Shadows stretch across the water.
“Keep me on speaker, at least,” he urges.
I imagine him pacing his porch, jaw tight, probably in a T-shirt that hugs his shoulders too well. The thought makes my stomach flutter—until a ripple of unease cuts through it.
“No. I’ll call you when I’m done.” I tap the screen to end the call before I lose my nerve.
Reid calls me back a moment later, but I ignore it.
The familiar hum of the motor and the sounds of nature should calm me, but the air feels heavy—thick and still, like the marsh is holding its breath.
I suck in a breath of my own, willing myself to be calm.
The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I’ll be back in the cottage with a glass of wine and a rom-com.
I find my first trap easily, right where I left it.
I hurl it out of the water to find it’s empty, the bait missing.
Easy enough. I move onto the second trap and find it has three juveniles inside.
My heart flutters, a mix of relief and sadness curdling in my chest. As much as I want to take them out and examine them, I don’t.
I pull on a pair of gloves, carefully lifting each turtle and then gently setting them free.
I toss the empty trap at the other end of my skiff.
I’m on my way to the third trap when I hear the low hum of another engine.
Probably Reid checking on me. Overprotective and relentless, he is taking the whole bodyguard thing way too seriously.
But the engine grows louder, it’s coming fast, now in my line of sight.
“Hey! Slow down!” I shout, waving at the driver.
The boat doesn’t slow down—it accelerates, barreling toward me aggressively, far too fast for comfort. I duck as it slices across my bow, the wake slamming into my skiff. The world tilts. Water splashes over the sides, soaking my shorts. My phone slides off the seat.
I remain crouched low but peer up at the other boat that has slowed.
A man dressed in all black with a neck gaiter covering his face stands at the helm.
There is something familiar about his eyes.
I’ve seen them before. He shouts something, the wind carrying only fragments of his angry words.
Before I can react, something heavy whistles past my head, thudding against the hull with a sharp metallic crack.
My foot slips on the wet boat floor and I go down hard, catching myself on the edge of the trap. Pain explodes through my palm. I jerk my hand back, hissing. But I don’t bother to nurse my wound. I grab the throttle and slam it forward, gunning the engine toward the cottage.
The skiff bucks over the chop, wind tearing at my face. My heart doesn’t slow until my dock comes into view. And then it spikes again.
The door to my cottage is wide open.
“No, no, no—”
I leap from the skiff, my boots skidding on the deck planks and thunder up the rickety steps. The place has been ransacked. My notes and papers are strewn about the cottage, scattered all over the floor. What would they have done if I were home? The thought terrifies me.
I scan the room, and then I see it. The terrapin tank is empty. My heart sinks.
“Trixie,” I whisper, a knot forming in my throat.
I back away, fumbling for my phone in my pocket before realizing I left it in the skiff.
Panic claws at me. I stumble back outside, nearly tripping down the stairs.
I race back to the dock, reaching for it, pain searing up my arm from the wound on my hand.
I look down to find a crimson stain on my shoulder seeping through my T-shirt sleeve.
My hand throbs, blood slicking the wheel as I reach the skiff and grab my phone.
“Shit,” I mutter. I scroll to recent calls, tapping Reid’s name.
It rings three times before he answers.
“Emery?” he says, his voice sharp and alert.
“Reid.” My voice trembles. “I need you.”