Page 58 of Murder in Calusa Cove
Chloe inched closer to Hayes. “Tell me again why Dewey’s the one leading us out here?” she murmured under her breath.
“He has trimmed more mangroves than most people have seen in their lifetime,” Hayes whispered. “Whether folks talk about it or not, Dewey knows this land better than anyone. He’s out here more than half the park rangers. Sees and hears things no one else does.” Hayes lifted his cap, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then pulled it back down low.
Chloe shifted her gaze back to Dewey, who stood near the bow, steady as the swamp around him. When he caught her looking, he gave a polite nod and a faint smile. But it was his eyes that held her. There was something about them—familiar in a way that unsettled her. She couldn’t place it, but a quiet instinct told her she’d seen those eyes long before she’d ever stepped foot in Calusa Cove.
“Hayes mentioned you do a lot of volunteer work,” she said, keeping her tone casual. “Storm relief. Not just here, but all over.”
Dewey lifted one foot to rest against the side of the boat. “That’s true.”
“Is there a reason?” she asked, watching him closely.
He paused, his boot dropping with a solid thud onto the deck. His gaze narrowed just a touch. “That supposed to mean something?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Not at all. My training, combined with my natural curiosity, makes me ask questions that most people wouldn’t. You’re not a first responder, but you’ve traveled pretty far to help. South Carolina last year, right? I just wonder why you’d go. It’s a long trip, and there are other trained professionals, like Hayes here, who are sent by the town.”
“Sometimes that’s not enough, and sometimes people need more than first responders.” Dewey nodded slowly. “And in that instance, I’ve got a cousin up there, so that was part of it.”
“And the rest?” she asked, ignoring the pointed gazes from Hayes and Fletcher. Sometimes, she couldn’t help herself.
Dewey glanced out over the water. “When I was a kid, a hurricane nearly leveled this town. Category Four. We didn’t see it coming—the forecast was off, and the warnings came late. No apps or alerts back then. Just the nightly news, and well, we weren’t prepared.” He gestured vaguely at the horizon. “Boats were flipped. Houses flattened. Roads disappeared. For weeks, it looked like the end of the world. But what I remember most was the people—neighbors, strangers, folks from across the country—coming in to help us rebuild. It took years, but we did it. And I never forgot that.” He looked back at her. “Sometimes, folks just need someone to show up. Someone to sit and listen. Someone to share a cup of coffee and help them find the first step out of the rubble.”
It was the most Chloe had ever heard Dewey say in one breath. His voice was calm, even. Measured.
And yet, something still tickled the back of her mind.
She pushed it aside. She was on edge. The killer was playing games, and he was winning. They had little to nothing to go on, and the bodies were piling up. Everyone over a certain age, who appeared even a little off, she was suspicious of.
“He also thinks gator bites are a rite of passage,” Fletcher added, lightening the mood.
Dewey grunted. “Still got the scar from that one near Flamingo Bay. Took a chunk outta my boot and damn near my foot.”
“That story gets more dramatic every time you tell it, old man.” Fletcher chuckled. “Silas says it was barely a nibble.”
“Silas doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Dewey scoffed. “That old coot is afraid of his own shadow.”
Chloe bit back a smile and shoved every lingering doubt she had about Dewey into the mental drawer labeled “Unresolved.” She didn’t have time for gut feelings or half-formed suspicions—not with a killer escalating. Her nerves were already frayed, and Stacey, the ever-dramatic newscaster, wasn’t helping. The woman had been teasing some “major development” in the case all morning, promising an exclusive during the early broadcast. Chloe glanced at her watch. It should be airing any minute, but Remy—Dawson’s second in command—had promised to send her a summary. Dawson deserved one uninterrupted night to enjoy his wedding.
“How much farther?” she asked, scanning the dense green ahead.
“Another bend or two,” Dewey said. “Cole’s map marked the spot just up ahead—dry ridge nestled in. Usually stays above flood level. Animals tend to drag things there.”
The implication settled over her like the humidity.
When the boat finally drifted to a slow stop, Fletcher cut the engine, and the swamp stilled again—too quiet. Hayes hopped off first, securing the boat to a half-submerged cypress root. Chloe followed, boots sinking slightly into the spongy ground. Dewey unstrapped his machete, just in case.
They moved as a loose unit, Fletcher in the lead with the GPS tracker, Hayes flanking Chloe, and Dewey bringing up the rear with the quiet shuffle of someone who knew every snap of twig underfoot.
The spot was just as Cole described—an overgrown clearing, dense with brush, a small ridge rising just enough to keep it dry during the worst of the rains. Fletcher knelt near a patch of disturbed earth, brushing his fingers across the soil.
“This is it,” Hayes said. “Bone site number four, but I don’t see any bones.”
Chloe crouched beside him. “We’ll need to mark it, take samples, search?—”
A rustle snapped to their right.
Hayes tensed, one hand instinctively moving toward his sidearm. Chloe straightened slowly, eyes narrowing toward the thick green tangle.
Then the brush parted—and out stepped Trent Mallor, the snake wrangler that Dawson had recently had to put in lock-up for a night after launching illegal fireworks.
