Chapter 29
The Widow
When I answer the door, there’s a broody, broad-shouldered man who must be at least seven feet tall looking straight at me. Silver hair. Sharp gray eyes. He looks like he flew in straight from Siberia.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s the Big, Mean Man.
Oddly, the thought brings relief. Natalie is at the beach house, and Nathan’s at the Inn with the dive team. They’re both safe.
“Can I help you?” My voice is a squeak.
“Crystal Carter?”
“Yes.”
Wait. Did he call me Crystal Carter?
“Ziddo. I’m protective detail for Natalie.”
“Did the police send you?” I thought they were considering the case closed.
“Wes Harrington.”
Uh, okay. That’s unexpected.
I text Wes, and sure enough, he’s hired a bodyguard for Natalie. I smile. With everything that has been happening all at once, I’d forgotten about Wes.
I wonder if he knows Nathan’s alive.
Another text.
Yep. He knows, and he’ll be coming to Maverick Key soon. I’ll finally get to meet him.
I’ve tried not to take advantage of his kindness. But right now, we need his help.
I give Ziddo the address, then call Maddie to warn her he’s on his way.
The moment I arrive at City Hall, I’m summoned to the mayor’s office.
I’m sure this has something to do with the daily press conference. With anxiety rising across the island and the media circling nonstop, the mayor has been on the hook to face the people and the cameras every day.
He’s usually calm, immaculately dressed, steady. But the last few days have taken their toll. A shadow of stubble darkens his usually clean-shaved jaw, and his shirt and pants are slightly wrinkled.
Citizens are getting restless, and we’ve given them very little. No answers. Minimal progress to report. And now, with the arrival of the Navy and the death of the SEALs, Maverick Key is making national news.
“Crystal, we need your help with them today,” Mayor Bent says, loosening his tie. “Dr. Clark is busy with the dives, and we need someone who can answer basic questions about the science.”
He lets out a long breath and sinks back into his chair. “We can’t afford another bad briefing. Especially with the big networks breathing down our necks.”
I swallow my nerves. I’m used to making presentations to City Leadership, the Coast Guard, and NOAA officials, but the public and the media are another story.
“Mayor Bent, I’m a scientist. I can’t be a spokesperson.”
“Sure, you can,” he says. “Approachable. Pretty. You’ll make them feel comfortable, and they’ll trust you.”
“I don’t know. When does it start?”
“Now.”
I only have a few minutes to freshen up before walking on stage. Standing behind the mayor, I look out at the crowd. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but there are even more people crammed in the auditorium, and now that the press has been allowed in, large clusters of cameras line the aisles.
I can feel streams of sweat sliding down my back, and worry it might be noticeable.
This is not my wheelhouse.
After the mayor delivers his usual introductory remarks to warm up the crowd, he hands the microphone to me.
Don’t say anything stupid, Crystal, I tell myself.
As I approach the podium, a man at the back of the room catches my attention. He’s wearing dark glasses and a hat pulled low over his hair. Mid-thirties? There’s an eerie stillness about him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react to the noise around him. His face is blank.
I’m so frightened, I can’t move.
I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes out.
Instinctively, I know he has to be the Big, Mean Man. He looks like the guy in the security camera photo.
What do I do? If I call for help, it’ll cause a scene, and he’ll get away anyway.
I step to the microphone and try to tear my gaze from his.
“I’m Crystal Car—Glassier.” I swallow and continue, speeding through my presentation. I open the floor to questions.
“What killed the SEALs? Was it toxic gas?”
Oh no.
I glance at Mayor Bent. “I can’t speak for the military operation,” I say carefully, “but I can confirm that no toxic gas has been discovered in the area to date.”
“What’s in there? What’s killing the sea life?” Overlapping, scared, and frustrated voices rise.
“We haven’t identified the root cause yet,” I say, “but we have the best minds and the bravest divers working on it.” I think of Nathan. It calms me down and helps me push forward.
A red-headed woman I recognize stands up. She’s a local reporter. Without waiting to be called on, she blurts out, “Mrs. Glassier, are you having an affair with Dr. Nathan Carter?”
The blood drains from my face.
All the energy in the room shifts instantly.
No longer focused on the environmental crisis, eager faces turn toward me, hungry now for gossip.
For answers about the town’s beloved hero and what happened to him during all those years he was missing.
Some expressions are curious. Others are openly hostile.
Whispers rise from the floor to the podium.
My throat closes. I’m done here.
“She turned Mark into a murderer. He was a nice man.”
“Gold digger.”
“Slut.”
“Heartless.”
“Someone should call Child Services. She doesn’t deserve her daughter.”
Mayor Bent jumps up to the microphone. “Ms. Kasler, that’s highly inappropriate. One more question like that, and you and your team will be removed and banned from future gatherings.”
She ignores him and fires off another rude question, but I can’t hear it. All I see is the Big, Mean Man’s face as the corners of his mouth twitch, then slowly curve into a smile.