Chapter Sixteen
REID
I DON’T SLEEP much after leaving Emery’s cottage.
It took everything in me not to turn around and go right back inside.
I can’t explain this hold she has on me.
Maybe it’s just that I’ve been alone for so long.
Maybe I’m finally ready for a partner. Maybe we’re bonding over the trauma of what we saw.
But Emery? She’s not in a place for this.
She’s here on borrowed time. If not for those early morning hours in the marsh two weeks ago, we probably wouldn’t even be as close as we are.
I am usually good at compartmentalizing my thoughts and emotions.
Clear cut, black and white boxes. I don’t typically get attached to women I see—though admittedly, it’s been a while—and I like to think I could keep my head in this game.
But I still know it’s a bad idea. I tell myself all of this as I head down the wooded path to her dock at five-thirty a.m. Not even twelve hours after I kissed her.
If I don’t keep repeating the reasons, I’ll have my hands on her the second I see her.
My pulse jumps when I spot her. She’s waiting at the edge of the dock, headlamp strapped to her battered university cap, an oversized hoodie swallowing her up. Somehow, she looks perfect.
When she sees me, she meets me halfway. “Hi,” she murmurs.
“Hi.”
“Listen—”
“About last night.” We speak at the same time.
A quick smile curves on her lips, and she gestures toward me. “You first.”
“No, you.” I figure it’s safer.
“I was just going to say I’m sorry I threw myself at you. You totally didn’t ask for it, and I’m mortified. So, if we could just forget it happened, that would be great.” She bites her lip, eyes darting up to mine.
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Emery, you didn’t throw yourself at me. That kiss was mutual. I haven’t wanted someone like that in…a long time.”
Her lips part, but only a small “oh” slips out.
I push past the tightness in my throat. “But if you’re uncomfortable, if you want to keep things professional, I’ll respect that.” Even as I say it, the lie sits heavy in my chest. Professional is the last thing I want with her.
“M-maybe that’s for the best,” Emery stammers, but regret flickers across her face.
I nod, sucking in a breath and stepping around her toward the skiff. “Shall we?”
“Reid.” Her voice stops me. I turn, meeting her gaze in the thin gray light of dawn.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
A sad smile finds my lips. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
“SO, WHAT ARE we looking for today?” I ask, steering the skiff through the still half-dark marsh, mist curling at the surface. Dawn is slowly creeping in, turning the water shades of gray and rose.
“I’m losing signals on some of these turtles.
One of my transmitters must be out. The battery life is short on these.
It probably just needs to be reset.” Emery stands as the skiff enters the turtle’s nesting zone.
“There,” she points to a PVC pole jutting just above the grass line. “Kill the engine, will you?”
I follow her line of sight. To me, it looks like nothing more than a stick in the mud.
Emery is already pulling on thigh high waders and nitrile gloves.
“What are you doing? Can’t you just check it from here?” I frown. “You really need to risk sinking out there?”
“I don’t have X-ray vision,” she says, quirking her eyebrows. “If it makes you feel better, you can get us a little closer.” She tucks a small notebook and pencil into the pocket of her hoodie while I grab the oars and move us closer.
She pauses to snap a couple of photos of our surroundings. Then, clipping her waterproof camera to her chest, she swings a leg over the side of the boat.
Before I can argue, she’s off, marsh water climbing to her knees, mud sucking her boots as she wades toward the pole.
“It’ll just take a sec,” she calls over her shoulder. But she falters. Movement near the reeds sends a jolt of alarm straight through me. I climb out of the boat before I can think better of it, wading straight to her.
When I reach her, she’s crouched down, holding a turtle and closely examining its shell.
“It’s one of mine,” she says, shaking her head in confusion. “I tagged her three weeks ago, but…” She swallows audibly. “Someone cut it off.”
“Cut it off?”
“See here, the epoxy scar is jagged, raw against the carapace, the transmitter is gone.” Emery frowns, shaking her head. “And this chalky white stuff…”
“That’s not mud,” I state the obvious. “Look.” I point to the reeds behind her. More of the chalky residue clings to the grass, forming cloudy patches where the mud meets the shore. I suck in a breath, realizing the air has a faint chemical tang.
I move closer, and a scrap of plastic between the reeds catches the light—thin, torn, half-buried in the muck.
It looks like the corner of a vacuum-sealed bag, with jagged edges and a strip of silver tape hanging off like it was ripped open.
The rest of the package is gone. Probably washed away, but the white residue remains, clinging to the marsh grass, swirling in milky clouds when the breeze stirs the water.
“Oh my God.” Emery’s hands tremble as she lifts her headlamp for a clearer look. The residue glows white in the light of her headlamp. She turns her attention back to the turtle. “I need photos before I move her.”
She fumbles with her waterproof camera slung across her chest, snapping quick shots from every angle.
“There’s a plastic carrier in the boat. Can you get it for me?” she asks, her voice laced with worry.
“Sure.” I rise quickly, trudging back to the skiff just twenty feet away. I return a few moments later, passing her the ventilated plastic carrier lined with damp towels.
Emery opens it, carefully lowering the turtle inside and clicking the lid shut.
“Em, you know what that is, don’t you? On her shell, in the reeds?” I ask, my voice low and sharp.
Emery swallows hard, hugging the carrier close. “I’ll swab it to confirm. But yes.”
The marsh is too quiet—the only sound is the faint cry of the gulls in the distance.
“Then we need to move,” I say. “Because whoever left that for your turtle to find? They’ll definitely be back to clean up their mess.”
THE HUM OF refrigeration units fills the lab as Emery flicks on the lights, immediately shifting into action. I lock the door behind us while Emery pulls on a fresh pair of gloves and covers a metal tray with damp towels.
My eyes immediately dart to the windows, scanning for any danger that might have followed us here.
“First step is documenting,” Emery says, snapping more photos. “Tag scar here,” she murmurs, angling the shell under the light.
I watch as she snaps photos from every angle, moving in closer with each shot.
“And residue.”
I move to her side as she picks up a sterile swab and carefully drags it across a chalky streak. Sliding it into a vial, she adds a chemical to it in small drops. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the liquid blushes blue.
I let out a breath. “What does that mean?”
“Cocaine. Confirmed.” Emery doesn’t look at me, her gaze fixed on the little turtle as she cleans her up.
My shoulders tense. This is a truth that feels like it’s been waiting for me. “Damn it. I knew this shit was going down,” I mutter. “Didn’t have proof till now.”
Emery jerks her eyes to me before carefully setting the vial down.
“Then we take this to the authorities. Someone has to know. If there is cocaine residue on one of my turtles and in the reeds then…it’s got to be in the water, hurting the wildlife.
Someone is using or running drugs through their habitat. ” She gives me a pleading look.
“No.” My voice is sharp and final, and my whole body feels tight.
She turns on me, stunned. “What do you mean no? This is huge, Reid. Your friend, Dr. Young? She must’ve known this was happening even if she hadn’t finished her research. This is not something we can ignore. We have evidence.”
“And the second you show it, you paint a target on your back,” I growl.
“The council’s in bed with the bastards running this, guaranteed.
You think handing them a neat little sample fixes anything?
It gets you silenced.” I drag a hand down my face, pacing the room.
Emery is right, Penny must have known. The revelation sends a shiver through me.
If she knew, then that reinforces all my doubts about her death that I’ve buried deep inside. I can’t face those fears—not yet.
Emery’s face contorts from confusion to anger. “So, we just sit on this? Like we’re sitting on the murder we witnessed?” she snaps.
“Lower your voice.”
“Reid.” Emery stares at me, all tenderness from last night gone from her eyes.
“We move quietly. Carefully. Let me talk to Colt. Just until I know who we can trust.” I force my voice to remain steady.
The turtle shifts in its tray, claws tapping against steel—a reminder of the fragile, innocent life tangled up in something far bigger than the two of us. We both stare at it.
“Promise me, Em,” I beg, my voice gentler. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Emery doesn’t meet my eyes. “I can’t.” Her voice wavers. “I can’t promise that. And I wouldn’t be doing the job I came here to do if I swept this under the rug.”
I run my hand down my face, exasperated. “Have it your way, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I make for the door, refusing to look at her as she calls after me.