Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Fallon gasped, jerking awake, her heart pounding hard enough for it to hurt.
She blinked, unable to focus on anything but darkness.
It was thick, quiet, and wrong. She slowed her breathing, hoping it would steady her racing pulse.
Buddy’s warmth registered as her eyes adjusted to the thin light of the moon carving through the window.
The sound of something dragging against wood tickled her ears and every muscle stiffened.
Then came a shatter, muffled, but no mistaking the source. Glass.
She flung aside the sheet and was halfway upright when Buddy’s hand closed around her wrist, steady, quiet. She gasped.
“What?” he whispered.
“I heard something—like glass breaking.”
He was out of bed in a blink, the mattress lifting with his weight. He reached for the nightstand. “Shit. Gun is in the truck.”
She slid open the dresser drawer, fingers shaking only a little, and pulled out her Glock. “There’s another weapon in the closet.”
Buddy raced toward the side of the room. The low light cut over the muscle in his shoulders as he moved. He yanked open the door. “Where?”
“Shelf. Pink shoebox.”
He reached up, snagged the box, pulled out the weapon, then spun and snagged his cell. His face lit up under the dimmed screen as he thumbed at it one-handed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, hiking up her shorts and pulling her shirt over her head.
“Sterling. Dove. Dawson,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.” He found his pants and managed to stumble into them as if this were his normal routine.
Fallon’s heart drummed in her ears—the kind of pulse that made sound feel thick and close.
They moved fast—barefoot, practiced, silent. The floorboards were cool underfoot. The faint scent of pear from her candles filled the air. The AC kicked on, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Buddy gave her a hand signal, pointing toward the left. Then he moved right.
They swept through the hall. Bedroom—clear. Bathroom—clear. The silence thickened with every step.
In the kitchen, the clock over the fridge ticked far too loud. The blower for the AC had kicked off five minutes ago. The air had already turned damp with the kind of humidity that made her skin feel slick even without sweat.
Buddy’s flashlight from his cell cut across the counters, caught a glint in the window. He paused, listening.
Outside, something shifted—quick, sharp, then gone.
Fallon’s throat went dry. “Front door,” she whispered.
Buddy nodded once. They moved as one like they’d done this a dozen times together.
He eased the lock open, slow and quiet, gun raised. The door swung with a soft creak.
The night spilled in—wet, warm, and wrong. The air carried swamp and mud and the faint tang of leftover fried catch of the day from the pub down the street.
Buddy stepped out first, scanning the shadows beyond the porch. The cicadas hadn’t come back. Even the frogs had gone still. The only sound was the slight rustle of the palm leaves dangling in the breeze.
Fallon followed, her weapon steady.
That’s when she saw it—white, too bright under the light of the moon.
An envelope. Centered perfectly on the table next to her rocking chair, her name was written clean across the front. FALLON REEVES.
Her stomach flipped. “Buddy.”
He followed her gaze, then froze.
“Don’t touch it,” he said. His voice was the kind of low she’d learned to listen to—the one that meant danger had a face, even if they couldn’t see it yet. “And don’t move. Not until I’ve had a chance to look around.” He crouched, examining the wood floor of the porch, his gaze scanning every inch.
Her eyes slid past the porch to his truck parked in the drive. The sight knocked the air out of her lungs.
The windshield was spiderwebbed, the side windows punched clean through. Glass glinted across the gravel like ice under the streetlamp.
“Jesus,” she whispered.
“What?” Buddy stood and glanced over his shoulder. “Shit.” He was down the steps in a flash. “Stay there.”
“Like hell—”
He turned and glared. “Please.”
That one word stopped her cold.
He moved with the controlled precision of someone who’d cleared too many dark scenes.
He bent to one knee, phone to his ear. He rattled off her address first, then said, “Vandalized truck, personalized note left on the porch. No signs of entrance to the house. All doors locked and secure. No other evidence. Send a unit.”
He tucked his cell in his pocket and glanced toward the road, every line of him wound tight. “They’re gone. But not long gone.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
He pointed to the truck. “If they were still here, and this was more than a message, we wouldn’t be vertical anymore.” He tiptoed back to the porch, dodging broken glass. “Do you have gloves and a letter opener?”
“Gloves and a pocket knife.”
“Get them,” he commanded.
“Shouldn’t we wait for—”
“Just do it.” He held her gaze, and not just any gaze. It was a stare she’d seen before—four years ago—during the Ring Finger case. The look was focused. Determined. And it demanded people listen.
She turned on her heels and raced inside.
Her breath uneven. Her pulse wild. She’d been in dangerous situations before.
Not often. It wasn’t a regular thing in her job.
She dealt more with citations when people fished or hunted in the wrong places—or tried to skirt the laws.
The most hazardous parts of her job came from dealing with reptiles in need of rescuing.
But she had never had anyone vandalize anything on her property and leave her a mysterious note . Or been under fire.
All those things happened in the same day.
She found the knife and the gloves and headed back outside. “Here.” She handed them to Buddy.
He snapped the gloves in place and reached for the envelope, careful, using two fingers, even though his prints wouldn’t be left behind. However, she knew enough about evidence that this was about not disturbing anything the perpetrator left behind.
Fallon stood next to him, leaning over his shoulder as he slowly pulled out a single piece of paper. She stared at the words on the page.
He couldn’t save them all.
He won’t be able to save them all.
Blue 42.
A gasp caught in her throat. Tears burned her eyes. “Does he mean you?”
“I’m pretty sure it does,” he said quietly. “But whoever left it obviously wanted you to see it.” He set both the envelope and the note on the table. Easing off the gloves, he stuffed them in his back pocket.
The events of the last few days rolled through her mind like a movie on fast-forward. She couldn’t slow it down. She couldn’t stop it. And she sure as hell couldn’t make sense of it.
Abruptly, Buddy stood and marched across the porch. He gripped the railing and stared across the street. “Someone’s been watching me. They're fucking with me, and now they're fucking with you.” He turned. His eyes were dark and full of rage. He pointed to his truck. “They knew I was here.”
“Okay.” She swallowed her pulse. She wanted to take a step back.
This was not the man she’d been with just a few short hours ago.
This was a man who held pain and anger too close to his heart.
She knew how that felt. Knew that if he didn’t find a way to let it go, it would not only continue to rule him, but it would destroy who he was at his core.
She wasn’t going to let that happen. Not on her watch. Not while whatever this was between them still existed. She inched closer. “But I got that first text before any of this happened. Before, we spent any real time together.”
“You’re forgetting we’ve known each other for four years. Whenever I could get back to town, we managed to see each other.”
“Nothing ever happened.”
“No. But we did have some interesting text conversations that indicated we were interested.”
“Mia said my phone was clean.”
“It is, but you said it’s a new phone. That you got it six months ago. We don’t know what’s on the old one.”
Her stomach churned. “And I traded it in.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Not to mention, I had a job to do in the location you found that girl. A job that was a bit of a waste as the client won’t be coming through the Glades after all.” He crossed his arms. “Whoever did this wanted me to find her. You just got there first.”
“Are you saying this has to do with that case?”
“It’s all language from it, except Blue 42.
I don’t know what 42 means. But Simon Court, one of the men I put behind bars, was—is—a ruthless man with no soul.
Two victims died the day I slapped cuffs on him.
He smiled at me, knowing they were dead, and told me that I couldn’t save them all.
That I’d never be able to save them. That’s when it hit me, I stopped one massive pipeline, but trafficking is endless. He’s not the only monster out there.”
“So, you think this is someone else, and whoever it is, is targeting you the same way Simon did?” It made sense. Sort of. “Doesn’t the FBI and other law enforcement agencies keep things from the public for that reason and others?” It wasn’t really a question, because she knew the answer.
“Simon’s a powerful man. We arrested seventeen people, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others loyal to him out there. Or he could’ve found a way to pay someone. Pulling strings from prison isn’t impossible.”
The air shifted. A car engine filled the silence. She shivered, but she wasn’t cold.
Images of Tessa, wearing Fallon’s jacket, walking out of the Crab Shack, waving goodbye to old man Tomey and Silas, never to be seen again.
A Calusa Cove patrol cruiser rolled up, headlights throwing a harsh light across the drive.
Jasper Newton stepped out, flashlight in hand. “I got a report of vandalism and a possible break-in. Everyone alright?”
“Not exactly,” Fallon said.