Chapter Thirty-Eight
REID
EMERY IS TOO shaken to file the police report herself, so I leave her at my cabin, stress-baking banana bread. It kills me that she’s living in fear like this. It’s unfair. And if she wants to go home to New Jersey, I should let her. I shouldn’t hold her back. Maybe I could go with her.
All these things are topics we’ve yet to discuss. I don’t even know where she stands with that ex-boyfriend of hers, her job, or her place back in New Jersey. It’s like she’s embedded in Tidehaven now, her past life forgotten.
I make a mental note to bring this up to her when things settle down. For now, we need surveillance on Atlas Rourke…like yesterday.
By the time I pull into the station lot, the sun is dipping beneath the trees, but it does nothing to cool things off.
Inside, the station hums with the sound of the AC, working too hard for its age.
The faint clicking of someone typing and voices comes from the bullpen, but I head straight for Colt’s office. The door is ajar, and I hear them.
Colt and Tate.
I pause outside the door.
Tate said he was going to Beaufort.
“The shipment’s not supposed to move until after the storm they’re watching next week,” Tate says.
“You sure about that?” Colt asks. “That’s a hell of a delay for something that might not happen.”
“Orders from higher up,” Tate replies. “They’re waiting for high tide. No one’s supposed to be on the water till it’s over.”
My pulse hammers in my chest.
Shipment? What the hell are you mixed up in, Tate?
I push open the door before I can think better of it. “Tidehaven gossip hour, or am I interrupting something important?”
Both men jolt like I fired a gun. Colt straightens behind his desk, but his expression is unreadable. Tate’s sitting sideways in a chair across from him, shoulders tense.
“Jesus, Reid,” he says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t match his posture. “You move like a damn ghost.”
I ignore his remark, moving further into the room, crossing my arms and fixing my eyes on him. “What shipment are you talking about?”
Tate’s eyes flick to Colt and then back to me. “Just marina logistics. Fuel deliveries. You know, since we’re down a few docks.”
“Huh. That’s funny.” I frown, challenging him. “Because last I checked, marina logistics didn’t require secret meetings at the police station.” My eyes dart to Colt, but his expression remains impassive.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Morgan,” Colt finally says with a sigh. “What brings you in?”
I toss the folded note onto his desk. “Someone smashed Emery’s car window while she was at work. In broad fucking daylight. Left that behind.”
Colt unfolds it. “Thought I told you to leave,” he reads. His jaw tightens.
Tate lets out a low whistle. “You got any idea who did it?”
I let out a breath. “No. But Atlas Rourke was conveniently there when she found it. She said he gave her the creeps.”
“That I believe,” Colt says. “He’s an asshole for sure. But vandalism?”
“Haven’t you seen him with Langford? He’s trying to send a message,” I growl.
“Why would he do that?” Colt asks, locking his gaze on mine. “Listen, don’t get all wound up before we know anything. I’ll send someone to take photos of the damage.”
I clench my fists at my sides, watching Tate. He’s fidgeting—tapping his thumb against his thigh, eyes darting toward the window like he can’t sit still.
“You look nervous,” I say. “Something you want to share with the class?”
He bristles. “You think I’d keep something from you?”
“I think you’ve been spending a lot of time whispering with Deputy Chief Riggs here and I’m starting to wonder why my two best friends are having marina logistics meetings without me when I’m part owner,” I say, flicking my gaze between the two of them, wondering who will crack first.
“Damn it, Reid.” Tate stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair and moving closer. “You want to do your job or interrogate me? Because I’ve got enough shit on my plate without you breathing down my neck.”
Colt stands, stepping between the two of us. “Knock it off, both of you.” He levels a look at me. “Tate is not your enemy here, and the last thing the two of you need is to draw attention to yourselves.”
I step back, sizing them up. “Fine. But if this shipment you’re hiding ties back to Langford in any way, I want to know about it before it bites us in the ass.”
Tate lets out a low chuckle. “You really don’t trust me anymore, do you?”
“I trust what I see,” I say flatly. “And what I’m seeing doesn’t look good.”
“You’re fucking paranoid. Wound too tight. We’re all on edge, it doesn’t mean everybody but you is involved in some conspiracy.”
I huff a sardonic laugh, stepping closer. “Funny. I didn’t say anything about a conspiracy.”
Tate stiffens, the air taut.
Colt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two done measuring dicks? This isn’t helping.”
Tate exhales sharply, turning away from me. “You know, Morgan,” he says, facing the wall. “You’ve been off since that body turned up.” He turns back. “Maybe you need to take a step back.”
“Fuck off,” I growl.
“Watch yourself,” Tate says quietly.
“That advice or a warning?”
Tate doesn’t reply. Colt and I watch him for a long moment before Colt turns to me. “He’s right about one thing, you know.”
“Which part?” I ask.
“The part about taking a step back.” Colt’s voice drops, quiet but firm. “You and Emery both could use some distance from all this. Go away for a few days. Let things cool off here.”
I suck in a breath, looking to my friend for an honest answer. “This your idea or his?” I jerk my eyes toward Tate.
“Mine. I don’t like the way things are moving,” he says carefully. “And I’d rather you not be standing in the middle when the tide turns.”
I look from him to Tate. Tate won’t meet my eyes.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Maybe you’re right.”
Colt nods once, like that’s the answer he was hoping for. “Go tomorrow. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
I turn for the door, but Tate stops me with a hand on my shoulder. His grip is too firm.
“Stop looking for trouble,” he warns.
I look at his hand, then at him. “If trouble’s tied up at our docks, I won’t have to look at all.”
His expression flickers—something like guilt, or anger, or both. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then prove me wrong,” I say.
For a second, it’s quiet except for the faint sound of the ceiling fan whirring overhead. Then Colt clears his throat and mutters something about filing the report.
“That’s what I thought.” I leave without looking back.
Outside, the air feels thicker, the sky is darker now. But even as I start the truck, I can still feel Tate’s stare on my back—and I can’t tell if it’s regret or suspicion.
WHEN I WALK through the door, the cabin smells of cinnamon and sugar—a comfort that feels right and wrong all at the same time.
Emery is curled up on the sofa, two plates of banana bread sitting on the coffee table in front of her, tabs of butter melting on top. She’s got her laptop open but her expression is blank, and I get the sense that she is only pretending to work.
“Hey, baby,” I say, closing the front door and locking the dead bolt. “Smells good in here.”
Emery looks up, dazed, like she didn’t hear me come in.
“You okay?” I ask, sitting beside her. I give her foot a gentle squeeze.
Emery sighs, setting the laptop aside. “How did it go?”
I push my lips together, debating whether to share my suspicions about Tate and the secrets he’s keeping. I decide against it. “Colt says he’ll send someone out to take pictures of it. I’ve got to go back to town and drive it home for you.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “What else?”
“He said he’ll file the report.” I pick up the plate and take a bite of banana bread. “This is amazing,” I say, swallowing. “Did it make you feel better?”
Emery lets out a low laugh. “Sort of. Not really.” She shrugs. “At home, baking brought me comfort when I was stressed. It’s not really working here.”
“Maybe you need a change of scenery,” I suggest. “Just for a few days.”
Emery blinks. “What do you mean?”
I put my plate down and scoot closer, pulling her to me. “I mean, let’s you and I get out of here for a couple of days. We can drive inland or up to Charleston. Anywhere you want.”
“You think running will fix this?”
“I think breathing will,” I say carefully. “We need space to breathe. Figure out the next steps.”
Next steps for us. Next steps for keeping her safe. The future and if we want to do it together. I don’t say all this though—she’s had enough stress for one day.
Besides, Tate and I already burned through our words earlier. I can’t remember the last time I raised my voice at him. But it’s time some hard lines be drawn. He thinks I’m letting this get personal. I think he’s wrong—and for the first time in a long while, I let him know it.
Emery lets out a long slow breath and nods. “Okay.”
“I’ll call Tate and let him know I need a few days off,” I say, squeezing her thigh.
“You think he’ll be okay with it?”
I give her a half-smile. If she only knew. “He’ll live.”