Chapter 3 #2
Dove's hand came up to rest on the older man's arm. "Trent, this is my uncle. U.S. Marshal Aaron Slade."
“Outside of this one, everyone calls me Slade," her uncle said, offering his hand.
Trent shook it because his mother had raised him with manners, even when he didn't feel like using them. "I remember you," he blurted out. “You came to my father’s funeral.” Trent’s heart pounded behind his ribs as the guilt rose higher.
Twenty years ago, Trent had no idea what he’d seen.
All he knew was that he’d witnessed two men who should be on opposing sides of the table having a secret meeting, and it looked friendly.
More than friendly. He told his dad, and next thing Trent knew, his father was involved in a federal case as a witness.
A few months later, he was dead, and Trent couldn’t help but feel as though it was his fault.
Dove's eyes widened slightly, cutting between them.
Slade nodded slowly. "I'm surprised you remember—you were young."
"I was fourteen." Trent kept his voice even, but something hot and old was coiling in his chest. "Old enough to remember the man who told my mother that the marshals service would find whoever leaked my father's name as a key witness before a trial even began.
Old enough to notice when that promise turned out to be empty. "
“That leak had nothing to do with your father’s death. Only the unraveling of the case.” Slade didn't flinch, nor did he look away. “However, we never stopped looking. The investigation—"
"Went nowhere." Trent did his best to keep his voice from rising. "Twenty years of no answers.”
"It's not for lack of trying—especially on my part.”
“Maybe not, but we weren’t ever told anything.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended. He took a breath, forced his shoulders to relax.
Slade was quiet for a long moment. "I failed your father.
" He held Trent's gaze steadily. "I've carried that ever since.
It doesn't change anything, but I want you to know that there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about what happened. About what I could have done differently. And since I’m here in Calusa Cove, I’d love the chance to sit down and have a conversation with you.”
Trent wanted to say something sharp. Something cutting. Something about how that didn't change the fact that Jack Mallor had trusted the marshals service and they'd gotten him killed.
"It was a long time ago," Trent said. The words felt like stones in his mouth. “I honestly don’t want to rehash it. It’s in the past. But I do have a question for you.”
“I’m happy to answer it. Could we do it over a cup of coffee?”
“I just want to know your thoughts on Garrett Dutton,” Trent said.
"I'd rather—"
"It's not an essay question. Just a general impression is all I need." Trent resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest.
“He was a decent marshal, and I worked with him on a couple of cases. Your father’s included. He always had political dreams, and he chased them, but I didn’t know him well. Is there a reason you’re asking about him?”
“He’s running for Senate, and one of his campaign points has to do with limestone mining, which could affect Calusa Cove and my property.”
“I did hear that.” Slade nodded. “Why don’t we sit down—”
"Slade, you old dog. Didn't know you were coming down this weekend." Buddy appeared at Slade's elbow, oblivious to the tension.
"Surprise visit," Slade said, turning away from Trent with a look that indicated he wasn’t done. "Wanted to see what kind of trouble my niece has been getting into, especially because she hasn't invited me since she moved here from Jacksonville."
"I'd be lost without her," Buddy said. "Mostly."
"She certainly keeps us on our toes." Sterling shook Slade's hand.
"That's frightening." Slade looped an arm around Dove's shoulder, kissing her temple as a father might.
They fell into easy conversation—shop talk, war stories, the kind of shorthand that people developed when they'd worked adjacent to the same world for long enough. Trent caught fragments of it—old cases, mutual acquaintances, jurisdictional headaches that had apparently been funny in retrospect.
He let the words wash over him without engaging as Buddy, Sterling, and Slade made their way back to the bar where Juniper and Fallon were sipping wine and laughing.
Dove stayed.
"You doing okay?” she asked quietly.
“Good days and bad. Today was somewhere in between.” He hadn’t seen much of Dove since the funeral.
Since she’d spent the night at his house.
Since they once again agreed they were better off as friends.
That time, it was him waking up in the morning, sitting on the edge of the bed, handing her a cup of coffee, and telling her he was sorry.
That he shouldn’t have taken advantage of or used her like that when he was hurting.
In usual Dove fashion, she shrugged it off as if she knew exactly what he was doing and was a willing participant in his need to bury his pain in human flesh, which just made him an asshole. But she kissed his cheek, got out of bed, and made him pancakes like it didn’t matter.
Only, it did.
“You were a little hard on my uncle.”
Trent picked at the label on his beer bottle, not meeting her eyes.
“I understand my father's death was an accident.
But you have to understand it was also all over the news.
Federal witness name leaked before the case fell apart.
Investigation launched. Lots of handwringing and promises made to find who did it, because it was that leak, along with the destruction of evidence, and the death of another witness that destroyed the case.
But then the news cycle moved on, the investigation went cold, and my mother spent the next twenty years wondering which of the people who'd sworn to protect her husband decided they didn't want this case to go to trial. And now one of them waltzes into town while an—”
“It wasn’t my uncle.”
“I never said it was. I'm just telling you what happened and where my head's at.”
She stepped closer—close enough that he could smell her shampoo—something floral and clean that didn't belong in a place that smelled like beer and river mud.
“My uncle never told me the details about the accident that nearly put him on desk duty. The one that’s haunted him for twenty years.
He warned me when I joined the Army that the job had costs. "
“My father was one of his costs.” Trent shrugged, but the motion was stiff.
"My mother liked him. Appreciated his presence at the funeral.
She never believed he was the one who leaked the name.
But every time I think about that day, I just..
." He shook his head. "The system was supposed to protect my dad. Instead, someone within that system betrayed him and everyone else involved in that case. And no one ever paid for it." And that was the biggest reason he’d kept what he’d seen to himself for two decades. Not to mention, he wasn’t even sure of what he saw.
Dove reached out and curled her fingers around his bicep, her grip warm through his shirt.
It was a small touch. An innocent touch.
But it sent heat spreading through his chest in a way that had nothing to do with the humid air.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For what happened to your father.
For what your family went through. And for ambushing you with my uncle without warning. "
"You didn't know."
"I should have. I knew my uncle worked in South Florida witness protection for most of his career. I knew your father died while in witness protection when you were young. I should have put it together."
"It's not exactly cocktail conversation. 'Hey, did your uncle happen to be involved in my father's death?' doesn't come up naturally."
Her mouth twitched despite the heaviness of the moment. "I'll add it to my list of icebreakers."
"Right after 'do you have any twelve-foot alligators I should know about?'"
"That one's already on the list."
The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. This was what Dove did—pushed until he pushed back, then kept pushing until the pushing turned into something that almost felt like a conversation.
It was annoying as hell. It was also the only thing that had worked in weeks.
"I'm fine," he said. "Or I will be. I just need time to figure out what fine looks like now."
"You don't have to figure it out alone."
"I'm not. I've got the gators."
"Reptiles don't count."
"Tell them that. They'll be offended." He winked, then touched his back pocket, where the folded notice burned a hole in his ass. "Besides, I've got bigger problems."
“Are you talking about the Hendersons? Because it hasn’t gone unnoticed that they’re right over there.”
“No. Not them. Though they are a little relentless. But I think I finally have them understanding that Mallor’s Landing is not for sale.”
“I hope so,” Dove said. “I want you to know that I still haven’t given up on finding the intruder from your mother’s funeral. I’ve been looking into Karl. He’s shady, but for some reason people like him.”
“He’s got charisma.” Trent chuckled. “Dawson hasn’t been able to find a single clue, and nothing else has happened since—including the fact I haven’t heard from Karl, although that doesn’t mean anything.”
“The whole thing still bothers me. People don’t show up to spy on a funeral and then duck and run.”
He pulled out the flyer and handed it to her. “I’m more concerned about this.”
“What is this about?”
"Blasting. Excavation. Destruction of the Glades.” The words came out flat.
"They'll gut the whole ecosystem. Kill everything that can't run fast enough.
Then they'll leave, and whoever's still around will spend the next fifty years trying to undo the damage. And a former US Marshal who was on my father’s case, now running for office, is promoting it.”
“Wait. First, aren’t the Everglades protected from this? And how do you know this politician protected your dad?”
“My mom told me one night when Stacey, the vulture, was reporting on it. I don't like it, never have, but now they want to do it right next to Mallor’s landing.”
“What can you do?”
“There's a public hearing in a few days. The company will lay out its plan. Talk about environmental impact assessments. Economic growth. The overall need for what they are doing. They’ll probably hand in their request for permits and all that bullshit.” He glanced around the bar.
At all the people he'd known most of his life.
The people who loved this town and no matter how poor and backwards Calusa Cove was, they still wanted it to stay exactly the same.
"I'll fight them. I don't care if it takes everything I have.
They're not touching the Glades, or anything near my land.”
"Good."
He blinked. "Good?"
"You needed something to grab a hold of and fight for.” She squeezed his arm once, then let go. "Grief is easier when you've got somewhere to put the anger."
He stared at her. This woman, who hated gators and loved guns, and somehow kept showing up exactly when he needed someone to push back against.
"That's surprisingly wise," he said.
"I have my moments."
"Rare as they are."
"Watch it, Mallor."
Dove's expression eased as she leaned into him again. “I stopped by your house yesterday.”
Trent blinked, and his pulse did a little dance in his wrist. “Really? Keep doing that and I might think you have an ulterior motive.”
“You’ve been withdrawn, and I promised your mom I’d check on you.” She pursed her lips. “So, get your mind out of the gutter.”
“Kind of hard not to go there,” he said slowly. “I mean, you don’t like coming to my place. With the water. And the gators."
She grimaced. "They hissed at me."
"They hiss at everyone."
"Not like that. One of them did that thing where they puff up and make that sound—"
"Bellowing."
"It was terrifying."
"It was a greeting."
"Sounded more like a threat."
"Dolly likes you. She just has a weird way of showing it." Trent missed these back-and-forth exchanges with Dove.
Dove stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You're insane."
"Probably." He drained the last of his warm beer, grimacing at the taste. "But I'm insane in a place where the gators know me, and I know them. That's worth something." Trent set the empty bottle down and pulled a twenty from his wallet. "I should head out."
Dove's eyes went to the door, then back to him. "It's early."
"Early for you. Late for me. I've got feeding time at dawn, and Dolly gets cranky when I'm behind schedule."
"Crankier than the bellowing?"
"Much." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, letting his lips linger a moment longer than strictly necessary. "I appreciate you checking up on me. I really do. But I’m hanging tough."
"I know." She didn't move out of his path. "Call me. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Just... let me know you're okay."
He hesitated. There were a dozen reasons not to promise her anything. They'd agreed to keep a distance between them. They'd agreed that whatever they'd been was over after he'd gotten shot. Then again, after his mother took ill. And again, after the funeral.
“I will.” He walked away before Dove could say anything else, or he suggested she follow him home.
The parking lot was half-empty, his truck sitting alone under a light that flickered every few seconds, moths throwing themselves against it in suicidal spirals.
He stood on the wooden porch for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. Letting the noise of the bar fade behind him. Letting the silence of Calusa Cove settle into his bones the way it always did, familiar and strange at the same time.
His mother had loved this town. Loved the water, the birds, the way the sunset turned the sky into fire. She'd spent her whole life here, raised him here, buried his father here.
And now she was buried here, too.
His father had died trying to do the right thing. He'd fought for what was right and lost everything. Now, some faceless corporation wanted to take what was left—the land Jack Mallor had loved, the home he'd built, the legacy he'd left behind.
Trent wasn't his father. He wasn't noble or brave or willing to sacrifice himself for abstract principles.
But he was stubborn as hell, and he'd be damned if he let anyone destroy the Everglades without a fight.