Page 50 of Murder in Calusa Cove
It was the table in the corner.
The same manila folder lay open—but this time, the photo inside was clearly visible.
And it was Chloe.
Hayes stepped into the shack first, followed by Dawson, Keaton, and Fletcher, all quiet, all on alert.
The air was suffocating and stale, the heavy scent of sawdust clinging to the walls. The space wasn’t cluttered, like one might expect. It was tidy, and the cot in the corner was carefully made, like a Marine had been taught.
Tools were placed neatly across a small workbench. Chisels, wood glue, rags. Nothing overtly threatening. Nothing obviously criminal, only suspicious.
Especially the image of Chloe. That didn’t make sense.
Dawson’s low whistle broke the silence. “I don’t like this one bit.”
Hayes didn’t speak. He couldn’t—not with Chloe’s photo staring back at him.
It wasn’t candid. It was clipped from a printed article. A profile piece from her early FBI days. He recognized it immediately—he’d seen the original on her desk once when he’d gone to visit her. But here it was, face-up on Cole Delaney’s table, beside a cluster of detailed Everglades maps with coordinates circled in red ink.
Fletcher leaned over the folder. “This doesn’t look good.”
“No,” Keaton agreed. “It looks like premeditation.”
Dawson’s hand hovered near his weapon, more out of instinct than threat. “Let’s keep looking. See what else he’s got tucked away.”
Hayes’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to believe it, but everything here looked bad. Really bad.
They fanned out, checking corners, lifting the cot, but there wasn’t much to examine. Nothing screamed serial killer—no trophies, no blood-soaked souvenirs. However, in a locked ammo crate, they discovered additional folders. Some old surveillance photos. Notes in someone’s tight, tidy handwriting.
Dawson flipped through them. “What the hell is he doing out here?”
Footsteps crunched outside.
All four men froze.
Hayes shifted toward the door, signaling the others. Dawson moved to the side, out of sight. Fletcher stepped behind a beam. Keaton waited near the window.
The creak of the porch boards gave way to a shape—lean, tall, and cautious.
Cole Delaney. He stopped cold when he saw Hayes in the doorway.
“I knew you’d be back, eventually,” Cole said, his voice gravelly. He wasn’t armed. Just a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and a tired, wary look in his eyes.
“Mind telling what this is all about?” Hayes asked with a wave at the table, his tone measured. Calm.
Cole walked in slowly, carefully, like a man who knew better than to make sudden moves around men like them. “I know what this looks like,” he said, glancing around. His eyes landed on the open folder. He sighed, not surprised. “I was hoping to know more…to be able to explain it…before you saw that.”
“You’re going to need to do more than explain,” Dawson said, stepping into view. “You’ve got a folder with a federal agent’s face on it, maps with coordinates near recent murder sites, and enough knives to make a hunter nervous.”
“I carve wood,” Cole said, holding Dawson’s gaze. “I’ve got blades because I carve. And those maps? I’ve been tracking areas where bones have been found for the last year.”
“Bones? What bones? And an entire year?” Keaton scoffed. “Why?”
“Because no one else seemed to be doing it,” Cole snapped, then caught himself. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant that out here, we see things. Boats where they shouldn’t be. Broken branches in places no one hikes. I started keeping records after I found bones near Red Water Creek when I first arrived in town. I found more way up past Deception Pass.” He waggled his finger over the papers. “Six spots in all, about fifty miles from here.”
Dawson narrowed his eyes. “You reported those bones?”
“Just the first set.”
