Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The next day, Fallon stood just outside the back door of the Crab Shack.
It carried a strange kind of gravity—half comfort, half ghosts.
Slowly, she walked toward the water. The planks of the dock were worn under her boots, and the sunlight was sharp enough to make her squint.
The channel stretched vast and endless, a mirror of brackish water broken only by the dark slashes of mangrove roots.
No clouds on the horizon. No storms creeping in off the Gulf.
Just the still, breathless heat that made the air heavy as syrup.
A gull cried overhead, circling lazy arcs, waiting for scraps.
The smell of butter and frying crab drifted from the kitchen window, tangled with hickory smoke from the pit out back.
The same scent had clung to this place since she was a kid—back when she and Tessa used to sneak fries during their shift and swear they’d never leave Calusa Cove.
That memory used to make her smile. Now, it pressed against her chest like a bruise.
She rubbed the back of her neck and forced herself to breathe.
Tessa’s Project. Every year it brought people together—families, fishermen, retirees, kids running barefoot down the boardwalk—but it also pulled at something deep inside Fallon. A crack that refused to seal.
“Don’t tell me you’re hidin’ out again.” Leroy’s voice rolled out from behind her, warm and teasing. The Shack’s head cook wore his usual grease-splattered apron and had the kind of charm that could calm a hurricane.
“Not hiding,” she said, forcing a smile over her shoulder. “Just thinking.”
“Ah. Dangerous habit.” He leaned on the railing beside her. “You got all your ducks in a row for Saturday?”
“Pretty much. Food’s sorted, band’s confirmed, volunteers lined up.”
“Good,” he said with a satisfied nod. “’Cause I’ve got my kitchen crew fightin’ for braggin’ rights. Mrs. Culver’s coleslaw might actually kill a man this year.”
Fallon laughed softly. “She swears the secret is in the vinegar.”
“Yeah, and the pound of sugar she ‘accidentally’ dumps in.” He handed her a small plate with a pair of golden crab cakes. “Try these. New batch.”
The scent hit first—buttery, spicy, alive. She took a bite and closed her eyes, the taste bright and familiar. “Leroy, these are ridiculous.”
“Secret spice,” he said.
“Old Bay, lemon zest, Worcestershire sauce, and extra butter?”
He snapped his fingers. “Damn. Ruined my mystery again.”
For a moment, the world stilled. The laughter, the heat, the ghosts—all of it faded under the comfort of something simple.
“You doin’ okay?” he asked softly.
She looked out over the water again. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? You got that faraway look. The one you get when you’re talkin’ to the shadows that live in the swamp.”
Fallon exhaled, steady but quiet. “Some shadows don’t listen when you tell them to leave.”
“Yeah, well,” Leroy said, resting his elbows on the railing. “Some people don’t know how to stop fightin’ for the ones they lost. Ain’t the worst problem to have.”
Her throat tightened. Showing up—again and again—wasn’t courage. It was survival.
The sharp buzz of her phone cut through the still air, dragging her back to the moment.
Baily: Got a delivery for you at the marina.
Fallon frowned. The tension that had started to ease, coiled tight again.
“You look like the world just cracked open. What’s wrong?”
“A package came for me at the marina, only I wasn’t expecting anything.”
Leroy arched an eyebrow. “You always order so many different things, maybe you lost track. Maybe this will be a good surprise.”
“With my luck lately?” She pocketed her phone. “That’s doubtful.” She handed him back the plate.
“We make our own luck,” Leroy said. “I’m sorry, strange things have been happening to you.
Buddy will figure it out. He’s smart that way.
He helped Hayes and Chloe bring in a serial killer.
One that was hiding in plain sight. He’ll catch whoever shot at you.
” Leroy smiled. “And he’ll probably run away with your heart, too. ”
“Please. No one can do that.”
“Your red cheeks say otherwise.”
“It’s hot out here.”
“It’s barely eighty, but you can tell yourself that.” Leroy looped an arm over her shoulder. “I’m happy to see you with someone who not only challenges that personality of yours, but who can handle your grit.”
“Oh, trust me, he can’t handle anything about me.” She chuckled. “But I’ll give him credit—he’s trying.” She strolled up the dock toward the walkway that led down to the marina. “I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll be here every day.” Leroy waved. “Anything for you.” He pushed open the door to the Crab Shack and disappeared.
She sighed. Time to go find out what extra goodies she ordered. It was like finding a twenty in the washing machine.
The boardwalk along the canal hummed with cicadas.
The water stretched dark and glassy, stirred only by the lazy churn of an airboat somewhere downriver.
She passed the old crab pots stacked by the shed, the faint clang of tools carrying from Fletcher’s workshop next door that he’d built for Cullen.
Calusa Cove was alive in its usual way—murmuring engines, distant laughter, the sound of her hometown breathing. It should’ve been comforting. Instead, it all felt too bright, too fragile, like one wrong step might shatter the illusion of safety she’d been pretending existed.
She waved at Silas as he unloaded tackle from his skiff. “Afternoon, Fallon,” he called. “How goes things with the final prep this weekend? Anything I can do last-minute?”
“You’ve done so much already. I appreciate your generosity each and every year.”
“If there’s anything else you need help with, don’t hesitate to call me. Day or night. I want to help.” Silas stepped onto the dock. “Tessa was such a bright soul. I know it’s hard for you, but you do so much to keep her memory alive.
He didn’t know the half of it.
A memory twisted in her mind—Tessa laughing as they’d raced along this same stretch of dock, barefoot, wild, invincible.
“It’s necessary.” She smiled. “I’ll see you Saturday.” She continued walking toward the main building of the marina—the memory of Tessa rusting in her chest like an old, beat-up truck left in a vehicle graveyard.
She pulled open the door and found Baily behind the counter, paperwork spread across the desk. The smell of oil and burnt rope hit first—real, grounding.
“Hey,” Baily said. “Package is on the table.” She pointed. “Showed up about a half hour ago.”
Fallon eyed the plain box on the counter. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already received everything I ordered.”
“It came by special courier. I had to sign for it, so I figured it might be important.”
“That’s just weird.” Fallon lifted the box from the table by the coffee machine and stared at it. Her name was written in bold block letters.
They stared at it together for a moment. The silence thickened, heavy with what neither of them wanted to say.
“Maybe it’s a donation?” Baily suggested.
“Maybe.” But Fallon’s stomach had already gone tight, a deep pull low in her gut that said, no, this isn’t right.
She pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Buddy.”
He answered on the first ring. “You okay?”
“No one’s shot at me, so that’s a good thing,” she said, hoping the sarcasm landed well. “But a package came to the marina today by special courier with my name on it, no return address.”
“Don’t open it.” His voice was sharp, clipped, and low. That tone—controlled but edged—always set something in her chest off balance. “I’m with Dove. We’ll be there in ten.”
“Buddy—”
“Ten.” He hung up.
Baily leaned over the box. “That man doesn’t waste words now, does he?”
“Not often,” Fallon said. “He hordes them like Halloween candy, but when he gets going, he can’t stop.”
Baily leaned her hip against the desk. “You really like him, don’t you?”
Fallon hesitated for a moment. She was used to people knowing about her relationships.
That didn’t mean she didn’t do her best to keep them private.
But this was Baily. She’d been Fallon’s babysitter and then her friend.
“He’s… mostly steady. I trust him. Which is probably why it scares the hell out of me. ”
“He’s what—ten years older?”
“Give or take.”
“Older doesn’t mean broken.”
Fallon gave a humorless laugh. “No, but it means he’s lived through more wreckage. And I have a bad habit of running when things start to feel real.”
“Maybe this time you stay,” Baily said simply. “See what happens if you don’t bolt.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Fallon wanted to tell her she wasn’t running, but the truth was, she’d always run. From loss. From guilt. From anything that might make her remember how much it hurt to lose the people she loved.
Before Fallon could answer, the door opened.
Buddy stepped inside, all focused movement and quiet tension. Dove followed, gloved and already scanning.
“Show me,” Buddy said.
Fallon pointed to the counter. The box hummed with wrongness.
Dove leaned in, turning her head. “No ticking noise.”
“Still, take it slow.” Buddy inched closer.
Fallon wrapped her arms around her middle.
Dove slit the tape with a pocketknife. The blade made a sound that raised the hair on Fallon’s arms. She held her breath, pulse thrumming in her throat.
Inside—fabric. Blue, soft, folded with care.
Fallon’s knees weakened.
Dove reached in and gently pulled out a jacket. The lightweight navy material caught the light. The gold piping was new and across the back—her name stitched in bold white thread. REEVES.
It wasn’t the same jacket Tessa had borrowed the night she vanished—but it was identical.
Her voice came out in a whisper. “That’s a spirit school jacket.
Just like the one Tessa borrowed the night she vanished.
” Fallon couldn’t breathe. Her throat closed, her lungs refusing to expand.
“My jacket was found on the side of the road by the marina parking lot,” she said. “How… why… I don’t understand.”
“Is your jacket still with the police?” Buddy asked with a soft but steady voice.
“Tripp said it had to remain with what little evidence they had, so I believe so.” Fallon pressed her hand against the center of her chest, as if to calm her heart rate.
“Who’s Tripp?” Dove reached into the box again, tweezers pinching a folded note.
“He was the police chief here a few years before Dawson took over.” Buddy took out a pair of gloves and snapped them in place before taking the note that Dove handed him.
His jaw tightened.
“What does it say?” she asked.
“It should’ve been you. Blue 42.” Buddy placed the note back in the box, along with the jacket.
He ripped off his gloves and swore under his breath.
“Dove, call Dawson and Chloe. We need to get them down here. Then call Flagler. We’ve got to loop him in on this, even if I’d rather work this angle without the FBI breathing down my neck. ”
“On it.” Dove stepped aside.
Fallon rubbed her shaky hands up and down her thighs. “Why is this happening?”
Buddy palmed her cheek. “Whoever is doing this is trying to get to me through you. It doesn’t take but an internet search to figure out your connection to Tessa’s Project and what happened.
This asshole has been watching since you found that body in the Glades.
I was there, and then we made it even easier by being together.
He’s trying to break me by hurting you where it will hit the hardest.”
“Then he’s getting what he wants.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Because I’m crumbling,” she whispered.
“I’m not going to let this prick destroy you, me, or anyone else.
My team is the best, and I don’t have the constraints I used to with the FBI.
I’ve got you.” His voice was a low, steady anchor, but she could hear the strain underneath.
He was trying to hold it together for her.
She hated that part of her almost wanted him to fall apart too—just so she wouldn’t feel so alone in it.
“You believe this is only about you?”
“I think everything about this screams ‘personal’—unfortunately, anyone in my life is going to be collateral damage in this jerk’s game.
And I don’t mean just you. They could’ve targeted anyone on my team.
Or Chloe. Or anyone they thought I was close to.
” He pointed toward the box. “They’re using what they can to send me a message.
I just don’t know exactly what it all means, yet. ”
“So, me, my fundraiser for Tessa, that’s just the bait?”
“I’m sorry.” He thumbed away the wetness on her cheeks and stared deeply into her eyes. The gesture was kind, caring… but she could feel the guilt and torment in his touch.
“Don’t apologize for something neither of us did.”
Wind pushed through the open door, carrying swamp heat and the smell of sunbaked wood. The flags along the dock snapped once, like punctuation.
“Everyone in this town remembers when Tessa went missing. But what I don’t remember is if it was reported that the police found Fallon’s jacket,” Baily said.
“It wasn’t.” Fallon wrapped her arms around her middle. “But I don’t know anyone who doesn’t know she was wearing it. Silas was the one who found it. And this town can’t keep a secret.”
“What kind of person sends something like that?” Baily asked.
“The kind that wants to remind you they still own the story.” Buddy pulled Fallon close to his chest, holding her tight in his strong arms, as if no one else was in the room.
But she couldn’t breathe and she needed air. Needed space. She stepped back and looked inside the box again. The note open. The words echoed—It should’ve been you.
She felt the air shift, the world narrow until all she could see was that single cruel line. She'd been telling herself the same damn thing since Tessa vanished. And someone had gone to a lot of trouble to let her know they agreed.
Buddy’s hand brushed hers, lacing his fingers through hers, squeezing tight, as if to anchor her to him. “You’re safe.”
She wanted to believe that. She really did. But safety had betrayed her before, and trust didn't come easy anymore. When she glanced out the window toward the water, the reflection in the dark current rippled—and for half a second, she thought she saw movement in the mangroves.
Her pulse jumped.
And for the first time, the Everglades didn’t feel like home.
It felt like a warning.