3. Matt
MATT
The beach no longer belonged to itself.
Earlier that afternoon it had been quiet, a stretch of pale sand framed by rocks and palms, a place that seemed to belong only to the children and the dogs who had raced across it.
Now it was something else entirely—cordoned off with yellow tape, the air cut by the hum of radios, the scrape of boots, and the hollow slap of an engine as one of the county boats idled offshore.
Voices carried low across the water, clipped, professional, and grim.
Matt stood off to one side with Muttley pressed against his leg, Luna hovering near them, uncertain. Beside him, Arno kept his eyes fixed on the ground, shoulders bent, every line of his young frame shuddering with grief.
Matt didn’t know what to say. He had offered a hand earlier, a squeeze of the shoulder, but words had stuck fast in his throat. What could he say? What could anyone say when a young man had just watched strangers lift the body of his sister out of the sand?
His own mind reeled.
Katy Marshall. Matt still couldn’t believe it. The efficient clerk who had handled his permits in Monroe County, the one who had always seemed brisk, no-nonsense, quick with her pen and quicker with a glance, now lying dead on the beach at Lost Love Cove.
It felt impossible.
Matt’s pulse hammered in a way that had nothing to do with the heat. He told himself over and over that it had nothing to do with him, with his house, with his permit, but the word he had been shoving into the back of his skull for the past couple of hours now pressed forward, bold and brutal.
Fraud.
Matt had tried not to think about it. Tried to frame everything as paperwork, as an error that could be fixed with a signature and a smile. But Ms. Marshall was dead. And his gut told him that was no accident.
Matt swallowed hard and stared out at the water, remembering the coroner’s words: The woman hadn’t drowned.
Her clothes, hair, and body may have been wet, but she hadn’t drowned, nor had she been in the water for very long, so there was no way she could’ve washed up on the shore.
She had been dumped here. The coroner also stated there had been no signs of struggle and that all signs pointed to Katy having been poisoned.
Matt breathed out. Katy had been purposely placed. Staged. Right there in front of her parents’ house, just up enough that the tide would lap and recede but never carry her back out.
The thought chilled him. It was too much like a message. A warning delivered in the cruelest possible way to her family.
A shiver traced his spine.
“What am I going to tell them?” Arno’s voice cracked beside him, raw and too loud. He pressed his fists against his thighs, knuckles white. “What am I supposed to say?”
Matt blinked, dragging his attention back. “Your parents?” he asked gently.
Arno nodded without looking up. “I have to tell them. I… I don’t even know how. They’ll be—” His words broke, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. His eyes lifted suddenly, wild, locked on Matt. “What am I going to tell them?”
Before Matt could shape an answer, a shout cracked across the sand.
“Arno!”
Both men turned. Down the slope from the rocky path that led to the houses came two figures running—an older man and woman, their voices carrying, their faces stark in the fading light.
Matt’s gut twisted.
“I thought you said they were gone for the summer,” he said under his breath.
“They were.” Arno’s tone was dazed. “I swear, they were.” He took a half-step forward, then froze as the couple drew closer, the truth undeniable. “I’d better—” But it was already too late.
His parents bore down on them.
Erika Marshall, Arno and Katy’s mother, reached them first, her wide eyes landing on the stretcher where officers were securing the body. The scream that tore out of her chest was sharp enough to make Luna bolt and Muttley whine.
“No!” Her legs gave out, and she pitched forward, clutching at the air.
“Erika!” Ian Marshall’s arms caught her, but she wrenched free, stumbling toward the stretcher until one of the deputies gently blocked her path. “That’s my daughter!” she cried, her hands shaking. “Let me see her! Katy!”
Arno darted forward, grabbing his mother, pulling her against him. “Mom?—”
“Erika, please…” Ian held her.
“This is your fault!” Erika’s grief twisted to fury in an instant. She whirled on her husband, fists pounding against his chest. “Because you couldn’t leave it alone!”
“Erika, please—” Ian’s voice cracked, his face gray with shock. “Sweetheart, don’t?—”
“Don’t you sweetheart me!” She struck him once across the face, a slap that echoed even over the surf. Then she collapsed again against her son, clutching at him as if he were the only solid thing in the world. “Come, Arno. We need to go with her. We need to go now.”
Ian reached for them, desperate. “I’ll come too.”
“NO!” Arno’s voice split the air. He shoved his father back with a strength Matt wouldn’t have thought him capable of. His arm curled protectively around his mother’s shoulders. “You stay away from us.”
Matt’s heart clenched; the scene before him was almost unbearable. He thought of Alisha, of Cody, of the nightmare of losing a child and being blamed for it in the same breath. The ache that tore through him was sharp and merciless.
He was still reeling when another voice cut through the chaos.
“Matt, what’s going on?”
He turned and found Paula Day standing a few feet away, her bicycle abandoned half in the sand. Her eyes were wide, her usually bright face pale under the sinking sun.
“I heard the boat sirens,” she said, breathless. “I followed them here.”
Matt’s throat worked. He forced words out low, steady. “It’s Katy Marshall.”
Paula blinked, then shook her head in disbelief. “No. No way.”
“I’m afraid so,” Matt explained quickly, voice flat. “Carrie found her on a jog.”
Paula’s gaze flicked toward the stretcher, then to the Marshalls huddled together. “Is that Ian and Erika? I thought they were away all summer.”
“So did I,” Matt said grimly. “It’s one heck of a day for them to come back.”
“Or a very convenient one.” Paula’s words were soft, almost to herself, but Matt caught them.
He turned sharply to her, studying the lines of her face.
Her eyes, usually alight with gossip, were sharper now, calculating, as if she were fitting puzzle pieces no one else had seen.
He had the sudden sense, not for the first time, that Paula Day was far more than the island chatterbox she pretended to be.
Before he could press her, Erika’s screams echoed again, ragged and devastating. Matt turned back in time to see her collapse against Katy’s body as the officers prepared to lift the stretcher onto the waiting boat.
“This is all your fault!” she sobbed at Ian, her voice cracking. “I told you to just give them what they wanted. But NO!” She shoved him.
Ian staggered back, his shoulders bowing. “Erika, I?—”
“Don’t you dare,” she hissed.
Arno once again jumped in front of his mother. “I thought I told you to go.”
“She’s my daughter too,” Ian persisted. “Please…” His voice broke. “Let me go with you.”
“No!” Arno and Erika shouted in unison.
“Mr. Marshall… Ian,” Carrie stepped up and gently pulled Ian away. “Let them go. We need someone who knew Katy to stay behind and answer questions.”
Arno and Erika made their way onto the ambulance boat as Carrie guided Ian further up the beach toward them.
He could hear Erika’s sobs, and the sound of her grief burned in Matt’s chest, leaving him speechless.
“Well,” Paula murmured beside him, her brows arched high. “So much for the perfect couple.” She glanced sidelong at him. “I thought they were unshakable. Even after all these years of marriage.”
“I guess not,” Matt said, his voice rough. His eyes lingered on Ian Marshall, who had turned, staring at the departing boat with hollow eyes. “I wonder what that was all about.”
Paula shook her head, lips pursed. “Not sure. But there were rumors, you know. About Katy and her parents not seeing eye to eye lately. Something about her choices, her independence.” She sighed. “That’s what happens when you try to run your kids’ lives even when they’re in their twenties.”
Matt barely heard her. His attention was fixed on Carrie, standing beside Ian Marshall. Her shoulders squared, her voice calm but firm.
Matt edged closer with Paula, not openly, but close enough that he could catch the rhythm of words carried on the wind.
“Ian,” Carrie turned to him, taking his attention away from the boat his son, wife, and daughter were on, and held out her hand. Her tone was official, steady. “I’m Captain Carrie Ware. I’ve been asked to assist the investigation here on Sunset Keys, as the department is short-staffed this week.”
Ian looked at her, his jaw tightening. “You’re staying at the Carltons’ house.”
“Yes,” Carrie confirmed. “And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Ian said nothing. His eyes drifted once more to the boat.
Carrie’s expression softened, but her tone didn’t waver. “I’m sorry to have to do this now, but I need to ask you some questions.”
Matt and Paula angled closer still, pretending to watch the surf, their ears tuned sharply.
Carrie’s questions came measured. “I believe Katy still lived at home?”
“That’s right,” Ian said, his voice clipped. “Though she’d been in Key West a lot lately.” His jaw clenched. “She was seeing someone there.”
“Do you know who?”
The hesitation was small, but Matt caught it. The flicker in Ian’s expression, the way his eyes slid just slightly away before he said, “No. Sorry, I don’t. She never told me.”
Even Matt could see he was lying.
Carrie didn’t call it out. She simply nodded. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Three weeks ago. The day my wife and I left on our cruise.” Ian’s voice was clipped and curt.
“Arno said you were away for the whole summer,” Carrie pressed, her brow knitting. “Can I ask what brought you back today, of all days?”
Ian’s eyes tracked the shoreline, then returned to her. His voice was low. “Katy called us two days ago. Said she needed money. She said she had to get out of the country, fast. She was in trouble.”
Matt felt the words like a cold punch.
Carrie’s face stayed composed. “How much money?”
Ian’s head snapped toward her, anger sparking. “Does that matter? My daughter has just been murdered. Shouldn’t you be looking for her killer instead of questioning me?”
Carrie didn’t flinch. “I know this is painful, Mr. Marshall. But I have to ask.”
Ian’s lips twisted. “Because you think I killed my daughter?”
“I didn’t say that,” Carrie replied. Her tone was even, almost gentle, but Matt noticed she hadn’t denied it either.
“You’re not ruling it out.” Ian’s eyes bored into Carrie.
“I’m establishing a timeline,” Carrie countered. Then she shifted, her voice quieter but firm. “Would you mind if I looked through her bedroom?”
Ian stared at her for a long moment. Finally, his jaw flexed, and he gave a stiff nod. “Sure.”
“But before we go,” Carrie said, “you still haven’t answered why you came home today.”
“I told you.” Ian’s voice sharpened. “Katy called. She said she was in trouble. She said she needed money. We were supposed to meet her at the house tonight.”
The words landed in Matt’s chest like bricks. Tonight of all nights.
He stared at the sand, realization crawling through him like ice. Katy’s body had been left on this beach in front of her parents’ home. She was supposed to meet them tonight. Whoever killed her had staged her body to make sure her parents would find her.
The image of the black sedan shot through his mind. Arno’s words about the man who had carried something too heavy to haul without a car. The way the vehicle had roared past his house, gravel spraying.
Matt’s throat tightened. His mind spun back further, to Carrie’s unease that morning, to the shadow she had seen on the rocks. Someone had been watching. Waiting.
And now a woman who had been tangled in his own house’s paperwork, in the permit mess that already smelled like rot, had washed up dead practically at his doorstep.
Matt’s jaw clenched, his chest pounding. This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.
The threads were tightening, and whether he liked it or not, he was already caught in the weave.
Matt’s gaze slid back to the Marshall house looming over the rocks, its windows catching the last copper light of the sinking sun.
Too many names crowded his thoughts, names that had seemed separate until now.
Trevor Carlton. Dick Stanstead. Ian Marshall.
The Winters estate. They weren’t scattered pieces anymore.
They were threads, tightening, looping, knotting themselves into something he could no longer ignore.
He heard Arno’s voice from earlier when they were on the ferry, as clear as if the young man were standing right beside him instead of leaving on a boat with his grieving mother. My father worked with the same company as the man whose house you’re staying in for the summer, Ms. Ware.
The words hit him harder now than they had before.
Matt’s heart slammed against his ribs. His mind leapt to the black sedan he’d seen idling at the ferry slip once again. Was that Dick Stanstead’s car?
And then a darker thought, colder than all the rest: was Dick Stanstead the older man Katy Marshall had been seeing?
The possibilities stacked like storm clouds, each one heavier, darker, more dangerous. Matt’s breath came slow and uneven, his gaze fixed on Carrie as she spoke with Ian Marshall. But his mind was no longer on the questions she asked.
This was no coincidence.
And for the first time since buying the house at Lost Love Cove, Matt Parker realized he might already be in far deeper than he’d ever imagined.