Page 22 of Betrayal In Calusa Cove
Fletcher pulled her back against his side. “The timing of this has my hackles up. There’s got to be a connection somewhere, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“A connection to what’s happening to me now?”
“I don’t know about the break-in and the gas. I still think Decker’s involved in that somehow. But the timing of that loan. The shift in Ken’s personality. The fights between him, your dad, and you—I can’t help but think that’s all tied together somehow.”
“That’s crazy,” she said. “Julie wanted nothing to do with this town or the marina. And her parents aren’t in the business of making loans. They own a manufacturing company. Not even sure what they make. Or even what they do. I just know they’re rich. They’re powerful. And they’re mean.”
Fletcher threaded his fingers through his hair. “But if Ken wanted this place gone, burying you in debt was one way to do it.”
“But that would’ve just screwed him over because, if I ever did sell, I’d owe him some of the profit from that sale.”
“You’re forgetting that Ken didn’t need the money. Nor does Julie or her family.”
“Okay, but then why not call in the loan?”
“They can’t call in the entire thing just yet—not unless you’re late or miss a payment, which you haven’t. You’ve got a few months before they force your hand, whoever they are,” Fletcher said. “I’m going to have Chloe focus her efforts right now on Julie and her family.”
“That just doesn’t make sense. I get that they don’t like me. But they hate Calusa Cove. They have no use for property in this area.”
“Regardless, Julie’s call doesn’t track, and we need to look at all the angles. Leave no rock unturned.”
“Since that payment is due next week, and I don’t have the money, knock your socks off.”
“We’re gonna figure this out, Baily. I promise.”
Baily leaned into him, the warmth of his body grounding her against the chill creeping in from the swamp. The water shifted below them, the last light of day slipping into dusk, but neither of them moved.
“After everything I’ve been through, I can’t lose the marina, Fletcher. I just can’t. It’s my heart. It’s who I am.”
Chapter 6
Fletcher tugged open the creaky door to his old bedroom and stepped aside to let Baily in first. When he’d first moved back home, he hadn’t been able to decide where to sleep. The master…or here. It had felt strange to stay in his parents’ room, but even odder to live in all the memories of his childhood…of Baily.
Everything about this room reminded him of her. The scent of lavender from her body wash still clung to the sheets. His mind filled with every kiss they’d shared. Every intimate secret that had passed between them in their youth filled his heart profoundly.
So, he’d opted for the master bedroom.
Baily stepped over the threshold with a familiar grin tugging at her lips. “God, every time I walk into this room, I feel like I’m walking into a museum to our youth.”
He glanced around his old room. It had the same dark green carpet, sprawled wall to wall, that it had always had. The thick matching curtains sagged slightly off their rods, and the wallpaper—green and blue stripes—still curled at the corners. A lava lamp sat on the dresser like it had been waiting for someone to ask it to dance. The ceiling fan overhead gave a little rattle as it turned. As a teenager, he would lie in bed and watch the blades spin while Baily curled up in his arms.
“You’d think after all these years it would’ve faded out of memory,” Baily said, brushing her hand over a stack of old books. “But it’s exactly the same. Down to the smell—dust and citrus polish and whatever cologne you used to drown yourself in.”
Fletcher smirked. “I was trying to impress you. Clearly, it worked.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, amused. “Worked well enough. But this room? You were all about your pride back then.”
“Still am.” He reached into the closet and pulled out the old box labeled FLETCHER, his mother’s loopy handwriting still legible despite the dust and time. “Found this not long after the accident. Never opened it. Figured it was just old junk.”
“You haven’t looked inside?” she asked softly.
“No. I wasn’t ready. And then... I just never got around to it.” He set it on the floor and sat cross-legged beside it. Baily lowered herself next to him, knees bumping. There was something grounding about sitting on that old shag carpet with her—it reminded him of simpler days, when the future had been just something you dreamed about, not something you carried on your back.
He peeled back the flaps.
The first layer was what he’d expected—faded report cards with red pen scrawled across the tops, a cracked plastic trophy from peewee football, a faded Polaroid of him in a Halloween costume made of duct tape and determination. A few letters and cards.
Baily leaned over his shoulder. “Oh my God, that’s my handwriting.”
