Page 3 of Sunburned

Waste Was the Biggest Problem with Desalination. Then De-Sal Changed the Game.

Miami First City to Utilize Desalination to Provide Over Half Its Clean Water.

Brazil, an Early Adopter of De-Sal, Goes All In.

Top 40 Under 40: #1, Tyson Dale.

De-Sal had skyrocketed to success, and Tyson had been widely perceived as one of the hottest bachelors in America, until he married his yoga instructor six years ago. They divorced while she was pregnant with their second child, after he knocked up another woman. The press had been vicious, and it was around that time that Tyson had retreated from the public eye, allowing his business partner, the former Olympic swimmer Allison Zhu, to become the face of the company. His brother, Cody, worked with him as well, but Cody had never been one for the spotlight, and though he held the position of COO, he was rarely mentioned online.

Tyson had remarried—a Belgian model named Samira Maies—just over a year ago, and while it was easy enough to locate images fromthe campaigns she’d done for brands like Prada, Dior, and Omega, it seemed she was also very private about her personal life. Or more likely Tyson had quietly had her history wiped from the internet.

I’d heard rumors of his new strangeness, his paranoia, but it was hard to weed fact from fiction online, and I hadn’t been surprised when he refused to talk about his reason for calling me over the phone. I wasn’t in a position to press.

“We’ve reached cruising altitude, if you’d like to move about the cabin, Ms. Collet,” the stewardess said as she approached, bearing a small silver tray of mozzarella balls with fresh basil atop sliced tomatoes, which she set on the table before me. “I’ll refresh your water as well,” she added, noticing I’d already finished my bottle. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Please, call me Audrey,” I said. “And no, I’m fine.”

Though I hadn’t felt fine for over a week now.

The news had arrived last Friday, during Rosa’s and my weekly visit to the outdoor shooting range on the edge of the Everglades.

It was early March in south Florida, and the day was downright delightful, sunny and seventy, with low humidity and a light breeze. The kind of day that makes you feel you can fly. Spindly pines arched overhead, and I could hear water trickling on the other side of the embankment behind the targets.

I focused on the black-and-white concentric circles, stilling my breath as I squeezed the trigger. Power reverberated through my body as I absorbed the kick of the gun with my elbows and shoulders, watching the bullet rip through the paper target two inches above the center.

“Nice!” Rosa enthused as I fired off another four shots in rapid succession.

All of my shots hit their mark. I lowered my weapon and winked at her, and she laughed heartily.

“And to think, five years ago you’d never touched a gun,” Rosa said as she reloaded her clip.

It was true, I’d never been much of a fan of guns—still wasn’t—and hadn’t carried one in my first few years on the job, until I’d gottenmyself in a sticky situation gathering evidence against a human trafficking organization. Rosa, then a rookie cop, had gifted me a Sig Sauer P226, the same weapon she carried, with a gift certificate for a gun safety course. I’d balked at first but had eventually caved, and I’d made it my business to become a sure shot.

While I only rarely had to use my weapon on the job, target practice was an important part of gun safety, not to mention a fantastic way to blow off steam at the end of a long week.

Though actually it had been a good week, and I’d had little steam to blow off—until Rosa’s phone rang. “It’s Deanna,” she said, raising the phone.

Deanna, our friend and primary contact on the police force, whose calls we always took. I held my gunfire as Rosa answered, her face shifting to an expression of concern while she listened. I could tell from her questions that this was no routine call.

“What is it?” I asked as she hung up.

She shook her head with disgust. “Another foot.”

I grimaced. The discovery was grisly, but not unusual. Something about the sturdy construction of athletic shoes combined with the current in the canals preserved and regurgitated the feet when the rest of the body had long since been devoured by the bounty of life in the Everglades.

“Nike Air Jordan high-top,” she specified. “Caught in the wreckage of a car that had been sunk separately, they’re pretty sure.”

Also not uncommon.

“But here’s the catch,” she continued, loading her clip. “It had a set of keys tucked into the lining of the shoe.”

I frowned. “And?”

“The key chain had a metal tag on it with the initials engraved.”

A tingle at the back of my scalp. “Go on.”

“Remember Ian Kelley?”

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