Page 2 of Betrayal In Calusa Cove
“I’ll give you one last chance,” the man behind Ken said. “Tell us what we want to know, and I’ll show him mercy.”
If Fletcher talked, they’d all be dead. If he didn’t, Ken would die, and sure as the day was long, they would all be killed, one by one. This was just another tactic. Just another form of torture.
“I will?—”
“Shut up,” Ken interrupted him, glaring. If the tables were turned, he’d be doing the exact same thing.
Talk about a lose-lose.
The man behind Ken pulled a knife and pressed it against Ken’s neck. A few drops of blood trickled down his skin.
“Take care of Baily,” Ken whispered. “And when she really needs help, you’ll find it behind the bait?—”
“Last chance,” the man with the knife said, pressing the blade deeper.
Ken looked at Fletcher—right at him—when the blade slid across his throat.
Blood squirted. Fast. Endless. Red over skin. Red on hands. Red that no amount of time could ever wash off.
Fletcher couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.
He just sat there and watched the life drain out of the one man he’d sworn he’d protect.
Fletcher jerked awake, breath ragged, T-shirt soaked through. The whir of the ceiling fan overhead too slow. The air in his room too thick. His fists clenched against damp sheets as the image of Ken’s face burned behind his eyelids.
Damn it.
He swung his legs off the bed and pressed his hands against his knees, trying to ground himself. Focus on something real.
The hum of the marina generators.
The distant cry of a heron.
The ever-present scent of salt and oil and old rope.
Over the years since Ken’s death, the nightmares had lessened… fading into the background. Once he’d come back to Calusa Cove two years ago, they’d started again. Memories of his childhood mixed with the dream, which only made it worse, but soon, they disappeared into the fog, much like the steam burned off the Everglades in the morning.
However, ever since Tripp’s journal had been found, and more of Ken’s secrets had been uncovered—or more like the realization that he hadn’t known his friend at all—the nightmares taunted him like an alligator waiting to attack.
He pushed off the bed and headed downstairs. He stuck a mug under the coffeemaker and waited for it to fill before snagging Tripp’s journal. Then he made a beeline for the porch—barefoot, shirtless, sleep forgotten. The sky was still black, stars muted by the early morning haze. The swamp beyond the docks stretched silent and wide.
The hum of the first boat making its way into the Glades caught his attention. He could see Silas as he headed up the canal and into the opening like he did every morning. The man was a creature of habit, but lately, since his longtime friend Dewey Hale had turned out to be a serial killer, Silas took to the waterways much earlier—and stayed out longer.
Silas’s wife had mentioned more than once that she was worried about the man. He’d always been a bit of a character, but now he was withdrawn and disillusioned by the world. Fletcher couldn’t blame Silas, or half the town, because everyone had felt betrayed by Dewey, especially after what had happened with Paul Massey and his drug running a few months before. Having two of their trusted townspeople turn out to be criminals, well, that tended to change a town’s perspective.
Fletcher checked the time. It was a little after five in the morning. Soon, the waters would be filled with boaters—people going about their lives, even though a lot had happened in Calusa Cove, everyone was still on edge.
His quiet little hometown, built on legends and myths, was turning out to be full of secrets—the kinds of secrets that got people killed.
He sat in his father’s old favorite chair, which sorely needed some new cushions. He lifted his feet, propping them up on the ottoman, and sipped the bitter brew while staring at the ripples on the water created by the slight breeze. This winter had been unseasonably warm for South Florida, and his air conditioning wasn’t working properly. He’d ordered the part, and it should be arriving today. That would give him something to tinker with on his day off while he did his best to keep the demons at bay.
But it wasn’t hot enough to really care, and the humidity wasn’t stifling. That was something.
He opened the pages, grateful that Dawson had let him have the damn thing for the next few days. Fletcher had told Dawson he’d make copies for everyone. They all had a stake in this now, as they planned to bid on the old Crab Shack as soon as the town put it up for auction. There was a scheduled town hall meeting next week. Anyone who had any inclination to purchase it from the town trust would need to file their plans and have them approved before the town would release the land.
It was a strange thing, and Fletcher didn’t begin to understand how the legalities worked. They’d hired a lawyer for that, but outside of possibly dealing with Decker Brown, no one else in this town had their sights set on the old Crab Shack.
However, there was so much more that weighed on Fletcher’s mind. Ken had been their brother-in-arms. They’d been on the same SEAL team for years. They’d been through some shit together and had nearly died together a few times.
