Chapter Thirty-Four
REID
THE RINGING OF my phone jars me awake before dawn on Sunday morning.
“What is that?” Emery grumbles, rolling off me and pulling the blanket over her head.
I reach behind me for my phone on the nightstand.
Tate.
“Go back to sleep,” I whisper, patting her shoulder. Slipping out of bed and closing the door behind me, I move to the living room.
“What’s going on?” I answer. “It’s Sunday.” Tate never bothers me on a weekend, but after last night, I know it must be serious.
“You’d better get down here, man. Fuck.” Tate growls.
“Tate, is that Reid?” I hear Colt’s voice in the background.
“What happened?” I bark.
“A body. In the bay. Right by our boat ramp.” Tate’s voice is tired and shaky. He sounds far away. Maybe he’s in shock.
“I’ll be right there.” I hang up, rushing to the kitchen for a piece of paper. Rather than wake Emery, I leave her a note. I’d rather she stays put then comes down there with me right now. I scribble quickly: Tate needs me at the marina. Be back ASAP. I love you. And I’m out the door.
BY THE TIME I pull into the lot, the overcast sky is heavy, a hazy wall of gray pressing down into the water. Police cruisers are parked crookedly near the docks, their lights flashing silently, reflecting off the bait shop windows.
The crowd parts as I approach, thick with the hushed murmurs that always follow when death shows up uninvited.
Tate stands near the end of the dock, arms crossed, jaw tight. Colt is crouched down, radio pressed to his ear. The minute I catch sight of what’s in the water, my stomach turns.
A man I recognize, half submerged, tangled in sea grass and fishing line, with tattered clothes and gray, bloated skin and a hole through his back, bobs up and down. Beau Rigsby.
Fuck.
“Crabbers spotted him just before dawn. Tide brought him right in,” Colt says without looking up. “Probably been out there a while.”
“How long?” I ask, fear blooming through my chest.
“Coroner thinks four to eight weeks. It’s hard to say with the summer heat.” Colt says, confirming my suspicions.
I count backwards in my head, trying to discern how far back that terrifying morning in the marsh was. Six weeks? At least. Bile rises in my throat, and I stifle a cough.
“First the docks, now this. Fuck, Beau.” Tate growls, turning his baseball cap backward. “The bastard probably tried to stop them himself.”
But I’m not hearing them anymore, my mind flashing back to the pre-dawn morning in the marsh. The sound of the muzzle echoing in my head and the racing motor of their boat hunting Emery down. And her face when I finally saw her.
“Morgan, you good? You’re white as a ghost.” Tate squints at me.
I don’t answer right away. The lie I’ve been carrying for six weeks burns in the back of my throat.
I’ve spent weeks convincing myself that keeping it a secret was the right thing to do—it would keep her safe after all.
But that’s been proven wrong and now the truth’s right here, floating in the bay.
I let out a sigh, scratching my jaw. “Ah, fuck. There’s something I need to tell you both.”
At this, Colt straightens, his eyes narrowing. “What?”
I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one else is within earshot, then I lower my voice.
“About six weeks ago, Emery was in the marsh near Cedar Creek. Before dawn. She saw someone get shot. I was out for a walk—you know I don’t sleep.
” I pause, rubbing the back of my neck. “They heard her, came for her. We didn’t know who it was, just that they were armed, they were chasing her, so I fired my gun in the air. Spooked them so she could get away.”
“What the fuck, Reid?” Tate snaps. “This is what you’ve been keeping from me? Why you’ve been asking all those weird questions.”
“I can’t believe you fucking sat on this, Morgan,” Colt growls.
“You think I wanted to?” I snap, dragging my hand down my face. “She was scared. Hell, I was scared and that’s saying something. And then things started happening to her. I didn’t know what to do except lay low and keep her safe.”
“You come to me, that’s what you do. Goddammit.” Colt paces, his hand resting on the holster of his weapon.
“You kept it quiet and now it’s right here.” Tate shoots me with a long cold stare.
“If this is the same guy,” Colt starts.
“It is,” I say flatly. “I’d bet my life on it.”
Colt finally brings his gaze up to me, his jaw locked. “Then you just made this a hell of a lot bigger than a harassment complaint against your girlfriend. I’m going to need every fucking detail—when, where, what you saw. Emery needs to give a statement too.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I figured.”
As the crew pulls the body up on the dock a sickly smell rolls through the air—rancid, like hot garbage in the summer sun. I have to turn away to keep from vomiting.
Tate inhales sharply beside me. “You know what they say.”
“What’s that?” I mutter.
“The marsh keeps no secrets.”
I glance toward the horizon, where thunderheads are building dark and fast. “It sure doesn’t.”
BY THE TIME the coroner’s van pulls away, the onlookers have mostly dispersed.
The only ones left are a few dock hands, sweeping away salt where there is none and murmuring to themselves.
Colt’s giving orders to his deputies while Tate leans against a piling, staring out at the flat water where the body had been.
None of us are saying it aloud, but the tide just washed up proof that someone wanted gone.
I’m halfway to the bait shop for a bottle of water and a break from the tension when I hear it—footsteps on the dock behind me.
“Morning, gentlemen.”
I turn to find Tate and Colt face to face with Councilman Roy Beck, Judge Everett Ware, and Warren Langford.
I turn back to stand with them—three on three, old versus young.
Roy Beck steps forward, his khakis too pressed for the setting, like he’s on his way to Sunday service. His smile is tight and practiced.
Judge Ware looks every bit as smug and still. Warren, by contrast, looks casual, wearing his usual navy windbreaker, despite it being eighty-five degrees at seven a.m., an amused smile curving the corners of his lips.
“Councilman. Judge. Mr. Langford.” Colt nods in greeting. “We’ve got this handled.”
“We have no doubt about that, Captain,” Beck says smoothly, his hands clasped behind his back. “We just came down to check things out. Awful business this…discovery. We’re all shocked.”
“Shocked,” Ware repeats, though his tone carries more warning than remorse.
Langford strolls a few feet away, pretending to examine the dock lines. “Any idea who the poor fellow is?” he asks, casting his gaze over the water.
“Beau Rigsby.” Colt’s jaw tics.
“Beau Rigsby,” Beck repeats with a surprised gasp that sounds artificial. “Foul play?”
“We’ll know more when we get the coroner’s report.” Colt doesn’t give him any more than that.
“Good, that’s good.” Beck nods. “Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about our little town.” His gaze slides to me, casual but cutting. “Especially outsiders.”
I meet his eyes. “Outsiders aren’t dumping bodies in our bays.”
Judge Ware’s lips twitch, amusement ghosting on them. “Now, son, let’s not jump to conclusions. After last night’s fire, we’ve got enough rumors in the mill. Don’t need you adding to them.”
Tate shifts beside me. “You saying this doesn’t concern you, Judge?”
“Course it concerns us,” Beck answers for him, his voice oozing politeness. “That’s why we’re here—making sure everything stays…contained.”
Langford wanders back to us, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes scanning the three of us. “We wouldn’t want anyone coming in here and stirring up trouble is all.” His eyes rest on mine.
“Trouble is already here,” I bite.
Beck barks out a laugh. “Morgan, you’ve been gone too long. Surely you haven’t forgotten the way we take care of our own.”
“Keep it in the family,” Langford agrees, snickering.
Judge Ware steps forward then, his voice low enough for only the three of us to hear. “If I were you boys, I’d stay focused on your boats, repairing this beautiful marina.” He holds a hand out, gesturing to our ash-dusted surroundings. “Let the right people handle this.”
Colt steps toward him, arms folded. “With all due respect, Judge, the right people are handling it.”
“See that you do.” Beck winks, turning to go.
Ware follows behind, leaving the scent of expensive cologne in his wake.
Langford pauses, his gaze lingering on me, lips pressed together. “Terrible thing, bodies in the water. Isn’t it?”
It’s not a direct threat but his words send a chill to my bones.
He claps Tate on the shoulder—a gesture too familiar, too firm—before following the others to the parking lot.
When they’re gone, I realize my hands are bunched into fists.
“You okay?” Colt asks, moving beside me.
I blow out a slow breath. “No. But I’m about to be.”
“Morgan,” Colt says warily. “What does that mean?”
“It just means I’m tired of waiting for the tides to turn,” I say, watching the men duck into The Salty Spoon. “It’s time we start digging.”
Colt claps me on the back. “We will. Starting with statements. I’ll see you and Emery down at the station. One p.m. sharp. Don’t make me come for you.”
I watch as he starts for his cruiser. “Fuck.”