Chapter 10
T he tires on Hayes’s pick-up truck crunched to a stop on the gravel just off Keaton’s old property.
The headlights cut through the darkness, catching the reflective decals on Dawson’s cruiser, parked near what was left of the house.
A single wall. A reminder of how close to death, Keaton and Trinity had come.
Hayes killed the engine and sat for a second longer than necessary, hand resting on the gearshift.
Chloe was already out of the truck, bag slung over her shoulder, her expression locked in that familiar mask of focus.
Only this time, he’d seen a hint of hesitation right before she’d exited the vehicle. It had been subtle. But it was there.
Perhaps it was because she wasn’t supposed to be there. Her superiors had made that clear—more than once. And yet, here she was. Moving as if it were her case anyway. Because it was, in every way that counted.
Hayes slipped from the truck, following the sound of her boots meeting damp earth. The air was thick with the scent of salt and decay. Not strong yet, but it was coming. The kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you’d left the scene.
Dawson met them where the garage used to be, flashlight beam low. “Buddy’s still en route,” he said. “I told him you were on your way.”
“How does he feel about me being here right now?” Chloe asked with a slight edge to her voice. It was that subtle distinction that Hayes knew she split between the ever-professional FBI Agent and the woman who’d lost her twin. It was a fine line to walk.
Dawson gave her a look. He gave Hayes the same look whenever he asked something that Dawson believed he should know the answer to.
“He’s not going to stop you.” He pointed his finger toward the news crew.
“But stay clear of Stacey and her microphone. She’s already stuck it in my face, asking if the victim was missing a ring finger and if this was six or seven murders we have now.
” He arched a brow. “Then she wanted to know if I was going to postpone my wedding.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I ignored her on both accounts, and even though she was off on that number, why does she even think we have more than two?”
No one said anything for a beat.
“Stacey’s resourceful, and she’ll do anything for a story,” Hayes said. “Including lying in order to rattle you or get information.”
“You would know.” Dawson cocked a brow, giving him that look again.
God, Hayes hated that look.
“What does that mean?” Chloe glanced between the two men.
“She doesn’t know?” Dawson asked.
Hayes sighed, shaking his head.
“Know what?” Chloe glared.
Dawson chuckled. “Do you want to answer that, or shall I?”
“You’re a dick,” Hayes mumbled. “I took Stacey out on a couple of dates before you finally agreed to go out with me.”
Chloe’s jaw slackened. She blinked a few times before slamming her jaw shut and clearing her throat. “At least you’ve got better taste now.”
“Stacey was using him to get at a story.” Dawson slapped Hayes on the back. “Poor bastard.”
“Gee, thanks.” Hayes didn’t like admitting he’d been used, but those were the facts, and the reality was, after three dates, he’d finally figured out what she’d been up to and told her to take a hike.
“Shall we?” Dawson turned and led them down the path that used to lead to Keaton’s waterfront.
“The victim was found maybe sixty minutes ago. The fisherman said the smell caught his attention before he saw her, back behind the old crab traps near the shed by the dock, partially submerged. Blonde. Mid-twenties, give or take.”
Hayes followed silently, his boots sinking into the soft ground.
He kept his focus ahead, but part of his attention stayed trained on Chloe.
He could tell she was trying to stay neutral, professional, detached—but he could see the shift in her posture, the way her fingers flexed just a little tighter around her field bag.
This wasn’t just another victim. Not to her.
They came around a bend, and the victim came into view—half in the water, blonde hair fanned out like some grotesque halo, skin pallid under the flashlight’s glow. The left hand, half-exposed, was curled slightly. One finger gone.
The ring finger.
Hayes exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. No matter how many times he saw death, this part never got easier. An image of Max flashed in his mind’s eye. Quickly, he pushed it aside.
Chloe crouched beside the water, already pulling gloves from her bag, even as her voice stayed low. “No ID yet?”
Dawson shook his head. “Too early. Remy and State are canvassing the area now. Forensics is ten minutes out.”
Hayes hovered just behind her, resisting the urge to reach for her shoulder. Not here. Not now. This was her line—one she kept drawing and erasing in the same breath. But he’d be there, ready to catch her, if she needed him.
She stood and turned, her expression unreadable—but her eyes gave her away.
“This was a message,” she said. “The killer could’ve dumped her anywhere, but he chose here. Keaton’s old property. This was intentional. Only I can’t for the life of me understand why.”
Dawson nodded grimly. “Buddy said the same thing. This one feels personal, but why Keaton? Why here? We have more questions than answers.”
“I didn’t mean Keaton, personally,” Chloe said. “It all goes back to what Hayes mentioned about Calusa Cove. I’m wondering if Calusa Cove holds significance for our killer. If he’s bringing us here for a reason.”
Hayes looked out across the dark expanse of water and mangrove, remembering all the nights they’d sat out here drinking beer, talking shit, and watching the stars. It used to be safe ground.
Now, it felt like a warning.
The crunch of tires on gravel signaled another vehicle pulling in. Hayes glanced back toward the road as Buddy’s SUV rolled to a stop behind Dawson’s cruiser. The lights cut off. A second later, a door slammed.
Buddy approached with his usual long stride, radiating tension under the surface, like a man constantly walking a tightrope between protocol and instinct. He didn’t bother with greetings. It wasn’t necessary. They were all like long-lost family now.
“Anything new?” he asked, voice low and rough from too many hours without rest.
Dawson shook his head. “Not since we spoke ten minutes ago.”
Buddy’s gaze swept the area, pausing on Chloe for half a second longer than necessary. His face didn’t shift, but Hayes caught it—that slight flicker of concern, or maybe guilt, but the question was whether it was about her not being able to work the case or being here at all?
“You okay?” Buddy rested his hand on Chloe’s shoulder in an older brother-type gesture.
Chloe nodded once. “Not the first crime scene like this I’ve been at, and you said I could be here.”
“I’m just checking,” Buddy replied, jerking his thumb.
“Make sure you stay away from that one. Stacey’s already making waves.
She put in a call to the home office, asking questions.
I don’t know where she’s getting her information, but I’m going to have a long conversation with her tonight and tell her to hush her freaking mouth. ”
“She won’t do it,” Hayes said. “She’s a story whore and wants to make it to the national level.
The only way to get her to leave you alone is to feed her false information.
” Hayes planted his hands on his hips and swallowed hard.
He hated himself for being that big of a dick, but when he’d been the story, she’d made his life miserable.
Chloe narrowed her gaze and stared. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s a long story,” Hayes said. “But our department was involved in a scandal. She thought dating me would get her the scoop. I didn’t realize what was going on until it was almost too late.
” He shook his head. “I fed her false intel, she reported on it, and let’s just say, she’d like to hang me out to dry. ”
“That’s mean,” Chloe said, but smiled.
“It was deserving.” Dawson chuckled. “But we’ve digressed.”
Chloe stared at Buddy with what could only be described as a look of pleading in her eyes.
Buddy scanned the area, then nodded.
Chloe crouched again, eyes focused on the edges of the scene with the kind of intensity that came from chasing ghosts for too long.
“Do you think she was killed here? Or was she dumped? Do you believe the body’s staged?” Buddy asked, stepping to her side.
“This scene is clean. No drag marks. No disturbances in the brush coming in from the trail. That alone says something.” Chloe let out a long breath.
“She was carried in. This was staged. It all goes back to the questions Hayes asked earlier. Why Calusa Cove? What does this all mean to the killer? What’s the message he’s trying to send to us, because this feels like the killer is communicating to… us.”
Hayes took a step back, giving them space. He didn’t need to be in the middle of this. Not when Chloe had flipped that switch inside her that made her hyper-focused, all business, and emotionally sealed off. He respected it. He also hated it.
Because this wasn’t just about the murder. It was about her—about what it was doing to her.
Chloe stood again and turned toward Buddy.
“We need to re-map where all the other bodies were found, where the victims were from, and where they went missing from. All of them. Overlay them on a topographic grid. I want to see if there’s a geographic pattern involving Calusa Cove.
We need to focus on that. I believe it’s important. ”
“I already had Remy start pulling parcel data from the county records office,” Buddy said. “But if we’re doing overlays, I want you doing it. You’re the one who’s been chasing this guy the longest.”
She hesitated.