Chapter 17 #2
“How about if Hayes and I go out to Trent’s shack now?
” Chloe offered. “The killer’s not expecting us until tomorrow, so either we’ll catch him there, or we’ll be able to poke around.
If we see something, you all won’t be too far behind, and hopefully, Fletcher or Keaton will have eyes on Dewey by then. ”
“Sounds like a plan.” Dawson nodded. “But you two need to check in regularly. No radio silence. Got it?”
Chloe blew out a breath. “I hate the Everglades at night. It reminds me of all those teenage horror flicks.”
Dawson smirked. “The Glades can be beautiful at night.”
“Not when I’m hunting the man who killed my sister and might be my father.”
The shack loomed ahead like a forgotten tomb, half-swallowed by the Everglades. Moss hung in ragged curtains from the rusted tin roof. Cypress roots curled around the foundation like skeletal fingers, and a battered lantern swayed gently in the warm night breeze, creaking like an omen.
Hayes slowed, boots sinking into the soft, wet ground. The only light came from his flashlight and Chloe’s, their twin beams carving through the thick humidity.
They hadn’t spoken in the last ten minutes. Not since he’d cut the skiff’s motor, and they’d drifted in, silent as ghosts.
Hayes’s heart pounded—not just from anticipation, but from something darker, a coiling dread that started in his spine and worked its way to the base of his skull. He’d seen some awful things and lived through worse. But tonight, the air felt...wrong.
Chloe moved up beside him, her gun already drawn. “This is it,” she murmured. “Trent said he’d been using this place on and off for years.”
He nodded, took one last breath, and pushed the door open.
The hinges groaned like something alive.
The stench hit them first—rot, old water, something metallic and sour.
He angled his flashlight into the space.
Dust and cobwebs clung to every inch of the ceiling.
The place was cramped—barely the size of his kitchen—crammed with old fishing gear, buckets, a bloodstained workbench, and a tattered sleeping bag curled like a discarded snake in the corner.
But it was the table in the center of the room that stopped him.
A wooden crate sat there, half open. Inside it were jars. Eleven of them.
He slowly crossed the room, his boots thudding against the rotted floorboards.
Chloe came up beside him. Her light steadied over the labels.
And his breath stopped.
Heather .
It was handwritten in blocky, careful script and taped to a jar filled with cloudy liquid. Inside—floating, pale and preserved—was a ring finger.
Chloe made a sound—half gasp, half sob—and sank to a crouch beside him. “No,” she whispered. “Oh, God. Heather...”
Hayes crouched too, swallowing the bile in his throat. Rage sparked behind his ribs, low and white-hot. “We know Trent’s not our killer. He’d have more trophies, and these weren’t here earlier. This is staged…our killer’s taunting us.”
One by one, he checked the jars. The names matched the three recent victims and the eight older ones.
Eleven in all. It was strange, he’d chosen these eleven.
But maybe not. It was about setting up Trent.
Not about Dewey—the actual killer. Hayes closed his eyes for a second, letting that thought sink in.
It had been rumbling around in his brain ever since Chloe’s dad had dropped the bomb about her mother’s affair.
Hayes liked Dewey… genuinely liked the man.
He might have been a loner, but so what?
Lots of people struggled with crowds. Hayes preferred to spend time in the quiet of his own space.
But damn…a serial killer right in Calusa Cove…
for decades? It was a lot to process. He blinked, turning his gaze toward Chloe.
She crossed to a rusted filing cabinet in the corner. It creaked as she yanked it open.
“Not sure what this is,” she said, pulling out a leather-bound book. “Maybe it’s actually Trent’s, or maybe it’s a fake notebook meant to trip us up more.” She flipped it open, and her mouth dropped open. “Hayes, you need to see this.” Her hands shook as she glanced over the journal.
He crossed the room in two strides.
“It’s that journal Dawson’s been looking for. The one that Anna told him about. The one that had Tripp’s thoughts about different cases he’d been working on, and there’s a passage here about Dewey.”
“What does it say?” Hayes ran his hand across her shoulder.
“He suspected Dewey of something…of hurting someone,” she said, voice cracking.
“He writes it plain as day. ‘Something’s wrong with Dewey. He was at a crime scene across the state—and a second one where a friend of mine was working a missing person case…’” She flipped a few more pages.
“‘I think he knows I’m watching him, but I had to when that girl went missing.’”
“Jesus.” Hayes blew out a shaky breath. “I wonder what girl that was.”
Chloe reached down and pulled something else from the bottom drawer. An envelope. She turned it over. “Hayes, this has Fedora’s name on it.”
Hayes stared at it like it might bite.
“That’s... That’s my handwriting,” he said, voice hoarse.
He took the letter with trembling fingers, unfolded it, and instantly remembered.
He’d written it to Fedora years ago. A reply to the first message she’d ever sent.
It was raw. Honest. He’d told her why he’d left Betsy.
Why he couldn’t be the kind of stepfather she’d deserved. Why he’d had to walk out of her life.
He looked at Chloe. “This... I don’t know. Maybe he wanted us to find this. Maybe he finally wants to get caught.”
“But why go to all the trouble to make Cole or Trent suspects? Why feed Stacey information? Why have her wait until morning to give us this location if he was going to let us know it was him anyway? It doesn’t jive.”
“Maybe he’s still trying to set Trent up. Dawson did let him go.”
“That’s true.” Chloe nodded.
“Also, if he suspects you’re his blood…his daughter…maybe he wanted to watch you. Observe how you work. See how good you were at ruling people out.”
“That’s a fucked-up game,” she muttered.
“Fletcher and Keaton were supposed to track him down and keep an eye on him.” He pulled out his cell.
“Last text from Keaton was that Dewey’s car is in his driveway.
His boat is in the slip, but they haven’t seen any movement.
No confirmation that he’s in his house. No one’s seen him, but they’re looking.
However, this letter proves it. Dewey’s kidnapped Fedora because I could see her carrying this letter across the state. ”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she’d know I might say no to attending her wedding.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to go?” she asked.
“She has a stepfather now, and while I love that kid, it wouldn’t be right.”
“That’s not true, Hayes. Stop hiding from the people who love and care about you.” Chloe pulled out her phone. She snapped photos of everything—jars, journal, letter—and sent them to Dawson and Buddy.
Hayes walked to the window and looked out into the dense trees. “This still doesn’t give us anything on Dewey. It still points directly at Trent.”
And that’s when he heard it.
The unmistakable sound of a boot crunching softly in the wet brush.
He turned. Chloe froze, eyes locking with his.
Another step. And then more, as the floorboards of the porch rattled.
Hayes reached for his weapon.
The door flew open, and there stood Dewey Hale. He stood in the center of the opening, backlit by the moon. His face was calm. Too calm.
In one hand, he held a lantern. In the other, a pistol aimed right at Hayes’s heart.
“Well,” Dewey said. “You two weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow, but that’s okay. I’m ready for you.”
Hayes stepped in front of Chloe, raising his weapon. “Drop it. Now.”
Dewey’s mouth curved, almost like he was sad. “I didn’t think it’d be you who figured it out, Bennett. But then again...maybe I did. You’re smarter than you look. Smarter than even you give yourself credit. Even I’m impressed.”
Chloe moved beside Hayes. “Where is Fedora?”
Dewey smiled—just enough to turn Hayes’s stomach. “Don’t worry. She’s still breathing.” He jerked his chin. “There’s another cabin a few hundred feet from here. You can’t see it from the water. It’s hidden real good. Not even the Seminoles know it’s here.”
Hayes’s hands trembled around the grip of his gun—but not from fear. From restraint. “You sick bastard.”
And still, Dewey just stood there.
Calm.
Patient.
Like the next move was theirs.
The Glades were silent—oppressively so.
Dewey didn’t shift his pistol. Hayes couldn’t read his eyes in the dim light, but there was something cold behind them. Hollow, but focused.
“What do you want?” Chloe asked, her voice low, measured.
Dewey tilted his head, like the question genuinely intrigued him. “Want? That’s a funny word, Agent Frasier. I never wanted this. Not at first.” He took a slow step forward. Hayes didn’t flinch, but his finger hovered just above the trigger.
“You can’t walk away from this,” Hayes said. “You know that, right?”
Dewey smiled faintly. “I walked into this the day Izzy cheated on me. The day I put her in the water and watched the current take her away.”
Chloe’s breath hitched. “Who was she?” she asked softly. “Was she your wife? Your girlfriend?”
Dewey’s eyes glazed over for a moment, distant. “She was everything. And then she wasn’t.” His grip tightened on the lantern. “But hey, why dwell on the past?” His gaze sharpened, snapping back to the moment. “Clock’s ticking—and Fedora’s time is about up.”
Hayes flicked a glance at Chloe. She was steady, but he could feel the tension vibrating off her. Her phone was in her back pocket. She’d sent the photos and journal to Buddy. He knew that. And Hayes had texted Dawson the moment they’d stepped inside the shack.
Help was coming.
But maybe not in time.
“We don’t need to make this worse for you,” Hayes said carefully. “Take us to her. If you want to talk, if there’s something you want us to hear, we’ll listen.”
Dewey’s jaw twitched. “I already know what you think I am.”
“You don’t know what I think,” Hayes said. “But I know Fedora’s innocent in all this. She didn’t cheat on her fiancé. And if you hurt her?—”
“I haven’t touched her,” Dewey snapped. The lantern wobbled slightly in his grip.
“You think I’m the monster?” His voice cracked.
“You ran out on that child when she needed a father. She had no one, and she needed you, and you bailed. You didn’t care enough.
I was never given that chance. I had no idea.
My girls were lied to their entire lives.
I didn’t want to find out like that. At a funeral.
Looking down at a girl I killed and realizing she was my own. ”
Hayes’s stomach turned. So, it was true.
And then Dewey smiled, staring at Hayes, as if he knew something big.
Hayes shivered.
“I couldn’t believe it when I learned you and I both knew Betsy.” Dewey waved his finger between himself and Hayes.
“What?” Hayes lowered his weapon for a split second. Bile smacked his throat. “What are you talking about?”
“I knew her. We met about the time Fedora would’ve been conceived.
” He smiled smugly. “I don’t know if I’m the father.
I mean, Betsy said she wasn’t married, and maybe she wasn’t.
I didn’t spend a lot of time doing the math when I researched your history, but my treat after every kill was finding a nice woman.
A vulnerable woman. One that needed a man’s kind touch.
Betsy fit that need. Just one night. That’s all I ever wanted from a woman. It’s all I ever took after a kill.”
“You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Hayes said under his breath. “You really like fucking with people, don’t you?”
“Actually, I don’t.” Dewey waved his weapon.
“I would’ve preferred to stay under the radar like I have for the last thirty-plus years.
I didn’t want to be known. I’m not the kind of killer who wants a name.
Wants recognition. Wants to be infamous.
But things have changed, and if you want to save Fedora, we should get a move on.
” Dewey blinked. And for a moment, Hayes swore he saw something human flicker behind the madness.
“I want you both to drop your weapons and give me your cells,” Dewey said softly.
“If you want to save her, you’ll come with me.
No backup. No games. You’re lives, for hers. It’s that simple.”
Hayes met Chloe’s gaze. A silent conversation passed between them. She gave the slightest nod.
He bent slowly and set his weapon on the edge of the table along with his cell.
Chloe did the same, her movements fluid but reluctant.
Dewey stepped back, waving them forward with the pistol as he gathered their belongings. “She’s not far. Just…isolated.”
As they stepped out into the warm, wet air, Hayes stole one last glance at the shack behind them.
The jars. The journal. The letter.
There was no doubt now—Dewey Hale was the Ring Finger Killer.
And he had Fedora.
Hayes’s pulse hammered in his ears. Whatever happened next, he was ready to go blind if he had to. He’d walk into hell for that girl—and for Chloe.
He only hoped it wasn’t too late.