Epilogue
REID
TEN MONTHS LATER
THE DRIFT NET is alive tonight.
It should be. We’re celebrating.
Edison bulbs are strung across the beams in the ceiling, glowing gold against the summer sky. A country-music cover band plays on the rebuilt stage, and someone’s grilling shrimp skewers that make the whole place smell like home. Kids dart between tables, snow cones dripping down their hands.
After everything this place endured with the fire and the storm, it’s good to see it breathing again.
Roy Beck, Judge Ware, and Langford Senior and Junior sit around a round table in the center of the room sipping whiskey like the kings of this damn town. Like they’ll do whatever it takes to protect their empire.
They look untouchable.
I lean against the bar with Colt and Griff, each of us holding a beer.
Tate lingers nearby but gives Langford a wide berth.
Lucky for him, Atlas died before he could say what he must have realized in those final moments.
As far as Langford knows, Tate’s still the loyal guy he always was.
Tate’s not taking any chances—staying invisible is easier than stirring up suspicion.
Tate spent eight months away, “doing time” for his alleged crimes while I got this place up and running again.
That seemed enough to satisfy the masses who all like to pretend that storm didn’t expose the dirty depths of this town.
I know he’s happy to be back. He looks rested, softer around the edges, but he’s tired too.
There’s a shadow behind his eyes that wasn’t there before all this.
Rage burns inside me at the injustice of it all, but I swallow it down when I catch sight of Emery across the room.
She is laughing with Kayla and her mom near the food tables, surrounded by a crowd of her interns and Kayla’s younger siblings running circles around them.
She’s talking with her hands the way she always does when she’s excited—animated, bright, full of life—and her brand new engagement ring catches the glow of the setting sun perfectly.
Every time she glances my way, she gives me that soft smile that tells me she’s exactly where she wants to be.
Colt clears his throat, bringing my attention back to my friends. He’s wearing his new chief’s badge—finally official after the ceremony this morning—and there’s pride in his eyes, even if he pretends it’s no big deal.
“So, what’s the first order of business for the new chief?” I ask, not bothering to hide my happiness for my buddy.
Colt’s eyes track across the room, and he sucks in a breath, setting his beer down on the counter behind him.
“Actually, there’s something I need to show you guys,” he says, reaching in his back pocket for a small yellow envelope.
The hair on my neck stands up.
Tate steps closer, watching Colt closely, his expression wary. “What’s up?”
Colt thumbs the envelope at its creases for a minute before speaking. “This was…left on my desk this morning. I guess during the ceremony. It wasn’t there before.”
My gut tightens. “By who?”
“No idea,” Colt says. “But whoever left it wanted me to see it.”
He opens the flap and slides out an old glossy photograph, creased in the corners, the orange digital date emblazoned on the bottom right corner: September 1999.
He hands it to me first.
A stage. A banner. Three teenage girls, the one in the middle beaming in a sash and white dress.
And standing behind them—half their current age—are Roy Beck, Everett Ware, and Warren Langford. Arms around each other. Smiling wide.
But someone has marked this copy.
The girl in the center, a sash over her chest, is circled in red ink.
“This the Miss Tidehaven pageant?” I ask, furrowing my brow.
“Looks like it,” Colt mutters.
I study it for another beat before passing it to Tate.
“Do we know who she is?” I ask.
“Not a clue. But someone wanted us to figure it out,” Colt murmurs.
“Someone wanted us to know she mattered,” Griff adds quietly.
“Us?” I repeat.
The breeze shifts, blowing laughter from the good old boys’ table toward us. They raise their glasses in unison, proud and satisfied, as if the whole town bows to them.
I swallow hard.
Tate shakes his head, shoving the photo back at Colt like it burns his fingers. “No,” he says. “No fucking way. I’m staying the fuck out of this. I’m done. I’ve had my fill of secrets and ambushes and goddamn undercover bullshit.”
He turns and takes a few steps toward the parking lot, leaving us staring after him.
Then he stops—his shoulders rising and falling, like he’s mulling it over.
He looks over his shoulder at the men in the center of the room. The ones from the photograph. And I watch as a sickly, satisfied smirk curls on the corner of his mouth.
He turns, his voice low and dangerous.
“Aww, who am I kidding?” he says. “Let’s burn this shit down.”
THE END