Chapter 11 #2
The water sat dark and slick, reflecting light off its surface like polished stone, despite looking like liquid mud.
Gators floated in the distance, half-submerged kings of a realm that didn’t care about human grief or its anniversaries.
Her father used to say the swamp had a soul—that if you were quiet long enough, you could hear it speak.
He’d been right.
This was her sanctuary. Her church. Her reminder that life went on, even after loss.
But today, the stillness weighed too heavy. The air felt thick. The water looked darker, denser, like oil pooled beneath the surface. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.
“Here.” Cullen handed her a cold bottle of water before dropping the cooler behind her seat as he stretched out on her bow. His skiff bobbed beside her FWC boat, the line between them taut and neat. “You look deep in thought.”
“And you got a haircut.” She twisted the cap open and forced a smile. Her mother used to say she had a bad habit of redirecting conversations when they got too close to her heart.
Cullen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You noticed.” He ran a palm over his shorter hair, the gesture easy, unbothered. It barely brushed the back of his neck now.
“Been slowly cutting it shorter and shorter,” he said.
“Needed to stop scaring the tourists. My uncle has been giving me a hard time about it. So has my aunt. But the real reason is I want to see my son, and my ex-wife won’t let me unless I show real effort in change, and looking like a human is part of that agenda. ”
“How old is your son?”
Cullen smiled—prideful. “He’s six. Looks like me, but smart and kind like his mother.
They moved to Jupiter with her family when I was medically discharged from the Marines.
Tamara told me that as long as I’m working on myself, I can have supervised visits, so I go there twice a month.
I’m hoping that soon, Tyler can come here and stay with me.
But I need to deal with the nightmares.”
“told me Fletcher had them. That all the guys had them after being tortured and Ken being murdered.”
“Dawson’s had more than one conversation with me about it. So have Hayes, Keaton, and Fletcher.” Cullen shook his head. “My uncle’s been putting me in their path ever since I came to town. All I want is to be a good father.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I don’t know. I got so messed up in the head that I didn’t know reality from fiction.” He tapped his temple. “But I’m getting the help I need. My Uncle Silas and Aunt Opal are amazing people. I’m so lucky to have family like that.”
She took a swig of her water. “Well, I like this hairstyle on you. Fits your face. Did you get it done in town?”
“Harley’s been doing it. We swap services. I’m making her a couple of pieces of furniture, and she’s been giving me free haircuts for a while.”
“That’s nice.” Fallon lifted her feet and stretched out her legs across the bench. “You two have been spending a lot of time together.”
“I’ve been out on the water a lot lately.
” Cullen leaned back on the bow of the boat.
“The addition to the bed and breakfast is done. Decker doesn’t have any local work for me right now and I don’t want to relocate to Fort Myers for his next job.
That’s too far from my son. Fletcher and Baily have me work building some furniture, and Buddy, well, he hired me for this.
But outside of that, Harley lets me hang out with her and help.
She can’t pay me, but that’s okay. She bakes me cookies. ”
Fallon chuckled. “You could get work at the pub. There’s a help-wanted sign hanging in the window. It’s washing dishes, but it’s something.”
“I don’t mind hard work.” Cullen stared out into the water.
“But I still jump at certain sounds. Don’t like enclosed spaces, except my trailer, and even then, sometimes I still end up sleeping outside.
Drives Silas and Opal crazy. They wish I felt comfortable inside their home.
I keep telling them it’s not about their hospitality or anything about how I feel about my relationship with them, because they’ve always been awesome.
It’s just being in enclosed spaces and wondering when something’s gonna explode. ”
“I can relate.”
“While I know you're an outdoorsy type, I don’t see you wanting to sleep under the stars every night.”
“I’m just saying I can understand what it’s like to feel closed in by walls and convention.” Her cell buzzed from its perch on the console. “It’s Buddy. I'd better take it.” She dropped her feet to the bottom of the airboat and leaned forward. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Listen, I need you and Cullen—”
Her radio crackled to life and Keaton’s voice boomed over the airwaves.
“Sorry, call coming over the radio. I gotta go. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” She snagged the mic. “This is Officer Reeves.”
“Reeves, I’ve got a report of a distress call from a kayaker,” Keaton said. “I need you to go check it out. Sending coordinates.”
“Got it. I’ll check in when I get there.”
Cullen was already in his boat, untying and firing up his engine.
Fallon eased the throttle forward, following the GPS marker Keaton had sent.
The sun sat low enough to make the water glare white-hot, and the air settled thick against her neck.
They cut through a narrow channel where the mangroves bent low, their roots curling into the shallows like black claws.
This part of the narrow strait always reminded her of Sleepy Hollow.
“This isn’t a popular spot for kayaking,” Cullen called over the engines.
“Which means either they got lost, or they’re in trouble.” She squinted ahead. “Either way, we find them.”
The coordinates dropped them into a wide bowl of still water framed by cypress. Spanish moss hung low, stirring just enough to look alive. She slowed the airboat and pointed. “There. In the reeds.”
A lime-green kayak half-hidden by tall sawgrass rocked lazily with the current. No person. No paddle. No life vest.
“Great,” Cullen muttered. “That’s not ominous.”
Fallon shut off the engine, letting the boat drift the last few yards. “Hello?” she yelled, cupping her hands. “FWC officer. If you can hear me, call out.”
Nothing—just the buzz of insects and the creak of branches shifting overhead.
Cullen coasted up alongside her. “Kayak’s wedged in there pretty good. Doesn’t look overturned.”
She scanned the shoreline. A gator eased across the water. Another set of reptilian eyes settled on hers from the port side, not far from the kayak. Frogs sang that deep throaty twang that reminded her this was their world, not hers.
Then it came—a voice, faint and frayed, threading through the air like a whisper.
“Help… please…”
Fallon froze. “You hear that?”
Cullen nodded once, his eyes narrowing. “Direction?”
She turned her head, trying to track it. “Could be anywhere. Sound bounces off the water.”
“There’s a hut on the point,” he said, nodding toward the bend in the river. “If anyone dragged themselves ashore, that’s the only shelter. And it’s not safe to go wading in these waters. I’m not even sure Trent would dare. I’ve counted six gators so far, and they ain’t small ones.”
They grounded the boats and climbed out.
The mud sucked at their boots as they moved up the bank.
The hut looked abandoned—a wood and grass structure.
“My dad took me back here when I was a kid. We’d sit with the Seminoles, and they’d tell us stories.
They consider these huts sacred because their ancestors built them. ”
“When I first came back from the Marines, I came out here. I heard about another Marine who lived out here for a while. That the Seminoles let him. Someone—broken—like me,” Cullen said.
“That would’ve been Cole Delany. He left town before you returned,” she said softly.
“I wasn’t too good at listening back then and I didn’t people too well. I heard this Cole guy was slowly easing back into society.”
“He kind of jumped right back in one day when his daughter showed up with a couple of grandkids. He hadn’t seen her in like seventeen years.
It was a beautiful thing. Four months later, he left to go live near her.
Dawson, Hayes, Keaton, and Fletcher all hear from Cole every once in a while.
They get Christmas cards. Cole still has some issues, but he’s doing well. ”
“That gives me hope.” Cullen stopped, raising his hand.
“FWC!” Fallon called again. “Help us find you?”
Another whisper. Closer this time. Faint but definite. “Help… me…”
“That’s not wind,” Cullen said.
She felt the hairs rise on her arms. “Maybe it’s coming from inside and muffled by grass.” She rested her hand on her sidearm. She pushed it open slowly. The hinges screamed.
Empty. Dust, a few scattered tools, a half-broken chair. No sign of anyone.
Cullen went still beside her. His entire body changed—the subtle coiling of instinct. Eyes wide. Jaw clenched.
“Fallon,” he said quietly. “You hear that?”
Before she could even breathe, the heat hit, sharp and consuming and the air turned to fire. A sheet of flame raced up the wall and leapt to the ceiling.
“We've got to get out of here.” Cullen did a one-eighty. “Now.”
Fallon threw an arm up over her face.
“Go,” Cullen yelled, already shoving her toward the door.
She stumbled as the heat clawed at her back, the roar of flame deafening. They didn’t run—they dove, straight through the mouth of the blaze, out onto the scorched grass beyond.
The ground hit hard. Fallon rolled, instinct taking over, smothering sparks that clung to her clothes. Beside her, Cullen was beating at his pant leg where it smoked.
“You good?” he shouted over the sound of the fire chewing through the hut.
“I’m not dead.” She stared at Cullen. His eyes had darkened, and underneath were the same shadows that had been present when he’d first come home. Not as clear, but they were there. Haunting him. Driving him.
She turned her attention to the hut—it was already engulfed by the flames—roof collapsing, sparks leaping into the sky. The fire spread into the dry sawgrass, crackling outward in rings of orange.
“Damn it.” She scrambled to her feet. “We’ve got to stop it before it jumps the waterway.”
Cullen had already grabbed the cooler off her boat and dumped the contents, racing to refill it from the canal.
Fallon hit her radio, voice hoarse. “FWC Four-One-Two. We’ve got a structure fire off Sector Five, near the tribal boundary.
Possible accelerant—repeat, possible accelerant. Request immediate response.”
Static answered, then Keaton’s clipped reply: “Copy that. Fire unit and rescue en route.”
She tossed the mic aside and grabbed a bucket.
They worked in tandem, throwing water, sloshing mud, anything to slow the spread. The flames hissed but refused to die. Heat pulsed in waves, making her vision ripple. Cullen’s arm was red and blistering, but he didn’t stop.
“Get back,” he shouted as a plank from the roof fell and shattered.
Fallon stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. The entire clearing was orange now—glow on water, fire on dried grass.
Cullen jumped to his feet, grabbed the cooler, and raced back to the waterline. He was a man on a mission, only she wasn’t sure if it was this one or shadows of the past.
The wind shifted, blowing smoke into her face. She coughed, eyes streaming, and in that split second, she thought she heard it again—faint, high, and wrong—a woman’s voice, echoing across the water.
Help me.
She turned toward the sound, heart hammering, but there was nothing—only fire and the endless, watching swamp.