Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The county hospital understood late hours the way the military understood silence—temporary. The fluorescent lights caused the kind of fatigue no one talked about. Someone coughed, the sound quickly swallowed by the hum of vents and the soft shuffle of rubber soles.
Buddy flashed his visitor sticker at the security desk, signed his name on the clipboard that no one would read, and took the stairs—two flights, but enough to burn off the static in his chest. He’d never liked elevators at night. Too much reflection, not enough escape.
He found the right corridor when the antiseptic sharpened, cutting clean through the old coffee. Every hospital smelled the same after midnight—like something trying too hard to be pure—but the ICU always tried the hardest.
He passed an empty vending alcove, a nurse’s laugh echoing from somewhere unseen. The hospital had that hollow feel every building did after dark—the kind that made you whisper without knowing why.
The tension in his shoulders crept up his neck and rolled down his back.
He’d spent the day in meetings that he couldn’t get out of and a road trip an hour away to discuss a case that Sterling might be assigned to, all while trying not to think about the Jane Doe found in the Everglades the day before who reminded him he could never save them all.
That phrase would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Deputy Jasper Newton, the newest recruit to Calusa Cove’s police department, sat outside the last room, one boot braced against the wall, radio turned low. His hat was tilted over his eyes, but the man wasn’t sleeping.
“Evening,” Buddy said.
Jasper tipped his hat up with a finger, a grin twitching. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks. It’s good to be here.”
“I was told you might wander in and play consultant.”
“So, Dawson’s expecting me,” Buddy said with a small laugh.
Jasper shrugged. “Chief went downstairs to get caffeine before the cafeteria shuts down—Chloe’s in with the girl. Over twenty-four hours since she was found, and we’ve got nothing. Chief is twitching.”
“That doesn’t surprise me about Dawson. He likes his town to be quiet.” Buddy brushed the edge of the sticker on his chest with his thumb. “Is the girl conscious?”
“She’s woken up a few times. Drifts in and out. Nothing substantial.” Jasper nodded toward the door. “Chief told me you can go in.”
“Appreciate it.”
Buddy pushed the door open, stepping into the low hum of machines and recycled air.
Chloe stood near the window, arms crossed tight, gaze fixed on the girl in the bed.
Jane Doe looked even younger under the sterile light.
IV taped to her arm. A faint ring on her wrists where the restraint had been—he’d seen that mark before, too many times.
It wasn’t just the injury. It was the precision of it—clinical, practiced.
Her lips were dry and split. Her hair was a dark tangle against the pillow, still streaked with swamp water even after the nurses had done their best.
The monitor ticked out a steady rhythm that somehow made the silence louder.
Chloe didn’t turn. “You just won me fifty bucks,” she said.
He came to stand beside her, close enough to see his reflection in the window—two ghosts framed by the pulse of a heart monitor. “You were betting on me?”
“I was betting you wouldn’t be able to help yourself,” she said, and her mouth curved just enough to suggest she wasn’t sorry about it. “I knew you’d give it a day, but then instinct would kick in and here you are.”
He watched the slow rise and fall of the girl’s chest. “Guess you know me better than I thought.”
“I spent years watching you chase ghosts across this state. You get that look, the one you have right now, and it’s game over.”
He glanced at her. “That so?”
“You’re not here for a visit. You’re here because you see a pattern, smell a puzzle, and a young girl is fighting for her life. You can’t walk away from that.”
He wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong.
“Vitals are holding,” Chloe said, switching to business. “She came around earlier. Scared. Thrashed hard enough to pull her IV. It wasn’t purposeful, just instinct. They’ve had to sedate her a couple of times.”
“Photos?”
“Taken. Clothing bagged. Chain of custody’s clean.” She gave him a sharp look. “Before you ask—which isn’t your job anymore.”
“No, it’s not.” Buddy folded his arms, eyes still on the girl. “You said she came around—did she say anything?”
“One word.” Chloe rubbed the back of her neck.
“Blue. Nurse isn’t sure that’s what she heard since the girl was so frantic.
I’m not convinced, and neither are you, because you’re here.
” She held up her hand before he could even open his mouth.
“I know you were with Fallon when I texted her because I had lunch with her today, so don’t deny it.
She told me you reacted to the word. Told me you went right to human trafficking. Told me you then back-peddled.”
“Okay. She mentioned the word, and yeah, I went there. And so have you and Dawson.”
The door opened behind them, and Dawson’s voice filled the small space before his body did. “Well damn, why couldn’t you have come in last night so I would’ve won fifty bucks?”
Buddy turned. “I was busy.”
Dawson held a to-go cup in one hand, a folder in the other, and the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying a town on your shoulders. “You planning to make a habit of showing up at my crime scenes?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.” Dawson’s tone said he didn’t believe him.
“I’m not mad you’re here, but this isn’t a reunion tour.
And I gotta say this shit, and you know it.
So, let's get it out of the way, so we can do what we do best. You don’t touch.
You don’t talk to nurses. You breathe near a piece of evidence, and I’ll have you escorted out by Jasper. ”
Buddy lifted a hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“True,” Buddy said, “but I’m capable of behaving.”
Chloe snorted softly, still watching the bed. “He’s here because he has a theory on our victims' word choice.”
“Oh, really.” Dawson shifted his weight. He passed Chloe the folder. “Because we’ve got nothing. Lab has her clothing, but there was nothing identifiable. No ID, no wallet, no jewelry. Prints don’t match anyone local or in-state.”
“Nothing in the FBI missing persons database?” Buddy asked.
“We sent a picture over, but so far, no hits,” Dawson said. “We’ve got her photo circulating, but unless she’s got family checking in every few hours, it’ll take time.”
“Someone’s missing her,” Chloe murmured.
Buddy studied the girl’s face. There was something about her jawline—stubborn, even in sleep. “She’s young,” he said. “Too young for no one to notice.”
“Not always,” Chloe said. Her voice softened, just a little. “Sometimes people disappear, and the world just keeps going.”
Buddy couldn’t argue that point. He’d seen it too many times.
“So, tell me your thoughts on what she said.” Dawson inched closer to the window separating them from the private room and the hallway that led to the main corridor.
“Operation Blue Eden.” Buddy hadn’t said those words out loud in months. The name felt metallic on his tongue, like he’d bitten down on a bullet.
“What’s that?” Dawson asked.
“The last big case I worked on with the FBI.” Buddy kept his focus on the girl.
“It’s a bit of a stretch to go from our vic saying blue to your case name,” Dawson said. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t either. But it’s more than just what we named the op.” Buddy glanced between Dawson and Chloe. “Blue was also an internal code word used by the traffickers. It meant it was safe to move the victims.”
“Okay,” Chloe said softly. “But why would our vic use it? Because that doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know.” Buddy ran his fingers through his hair. “It just struck me as an odd choice, and I wanted to mention it to you.”
“Except you wrapped up that case,” Chloe said. “Made seventeen arrests. Shut down a major pipeline.”
“I did.” Buddy nodded. “But we both know this shit is still going on.” His throat tightened. “Anything else? Maybe if I know more, I can tell if there are any other similarities.”
“Some sort of smudge on her wrist. Faded. Blue-gray,” Chloe said. “Could be ink, could be grease. We won’t know until the lab runs it.”
That knocked the wind out of Buddy’s lungs. “Can you send me a picture of that?”
“You know I can’t do that.” Dawson pulled out his cell and held up an image. “Why?”
It was too smudged to make sense of it.
“A couple of the girls we found were working sweatshops in the Bayou. They had stamps on their wrists that indicated where they worked. They were temporary until they were sold—if they were sold. Some were older, and not the kind of girls that got the same high price on the market as younger ones.” He swallowed the bile that bubbled in his throat.
“Any chance you’ve got unofficial copies of those ink stamps?” Chloe asked.
Buddy snorted. “I might be able to get you one, but as you said, I made those arrests. Unless someone reopened that pipeline, which isn’t unheard of, those assholes are either dead or behind bars.”
The nurse approached, holding a small envelope sealed in red tape. “Chief Ridge? Detective Frasier-Bennett? I didn’t want this misplaced.”
Dawson took it. “What is it?”
“Debris from under her fingernails. Small, but I thought you’d want it noted before evidence transfer.”
“Appreciate it,” Chloe said.
The nurse’s gaze flicked to Buddy. “Sorry, sir, but we need to keep the hallway clear for now.”
“Understood,” he said, stepping back.
Dawson nodded at Chloe. “Finish up here. I’ll have Jasper keep watch ‘til shift change.”
When they stepped into the hall, the door closed softly behind them. The corridor smelled like tapioca and tired feet.
For a few beats, no one spoke, and Buddy did his best to categorize what he knew, what was simply jumping to conclusions, and what were ghosts he was trying to outrun.
“Alright,” Dawson said finally. “I’m not saying you can’t think. Just don’t act on those thoughts without Chloe. You’re a civilian, and most likely, this case will be taken out of my hands and handed over to state or even the Feds. Let us run it clean.”
“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Buddy said.
“Yeah, you would,” Dawson said. “But thanks for lying.”
Chloe laughed under her breath, low and genuine. “He can’t help it.”
Dawson headed down the hall, muttering something about paperwork and shitty coffee.
When his footsteps faded, Chloe leaned against the wall, arms crossed again. “I know you still carry it,” she said.
“Carry what?”
“That case in Georgia—the guilt.”
He didn’t look at her. “I’m trying not to.”
She sighed. “Dawson’s never going to say no to hearing your thoughts, and I’m not going to get in your face about it in front of him, but you didn’t just leave the FBI because it was time. You quit because it got to be too much.”
“And you didn’t?”
“I was driven to find my sister’s killer.
Once that happened, everything in my world shifted.
My priorities. My goals. And it wasn’t just because of Hayes.
It was because I had a singular focus. I wasn’t burnt out.
I didn’t walk into the office one day, call my boss a fucking lazy bastard who kissed DC’s ass, set my badge and gun on his desk, and waltzed out like years of service didn’t mean anything. ”
“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel about my departure,” he said, his bitterness hitting his taste buds like vomit.
“I’m just saying you don’t have enough time and space between what happened and where you want to go to not let this one hit you between the eyes,” she said. “Go home. Get some sleep. Try not to chase ghosts tonight.”
He wanted to argue that he didn’t chase ghosts—that ghosts chased him.
But the hallway lights buzzed overhead, and the thought felt too close to the truth to say out loud.
His gaze drifted back to the glass, to the girl motionless under white sheets.
“She said blue,” he murmured. “What would you think if you were me?”
“The Chloe that was chasing her sister’s killer would be going down the same rabbit hole you are.
” She inched closer, resting her hand on his forearm.
“But the difference is that was one killer, and I had one purpose. My entire career was built on personal. You let one case get personal. There’s a difference. ”
“Maybe.” Only, he knew damn well, she was right. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You think she’ll make it?”
“I’ve seen worse come back,” Chloe said. “And I’ve seen better not. So flip a coin.”
That landed heavy.
He nodded once, stepped back, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let me know if she wakes up again. And that’s not me being obsessive. But I will admit the Georgia case changed me.”
“I know, and I’ll keep you posted.”
When he stepped back into the stairwell, the air hit cooler, thinner. He leaned on the rail a second before starting down.
Below, the vending machine hummed beside the sound of his own thoughts. Blue.
He told himself it wasn’t his case.
He told himself even if this was trafficking—it didn’t involve him, and he should stay out of it.
He told himself he believed that.
He was good at lying to himself.
Outside, the humidity clung like breath.
The parking lot was half-empty, the town beyond it asleep.
Buddy paused under the yellow glow of a lamppost and looked back once.
In the second-floor window, a pulse light blinked steadily.
Blue, then gone. Blue, then gone. Like a heartbeat he couldn’t stop hearing.
Then he turned toward the dark and started walking, knowing damn well he wasn’t getting much sleep tonight.