Page 76 of Murder in Calusa Cove

Hayes’s pulse thundered in his ears as he positioned himself slightly in front of Chloe, the beat of the Everglades fading beneath the sharp focus of imminent danger. Dewey’s gun pressed harder into Fedora’s temple. Her eyes shimmered with tears, lips trembling behind the tape, bound to the chair in the corner of the swamp shack like a pawn in some unholy checkmate.

Hayes kept his voice steady. “You don’t have to do this. Let her go.”

Dewey’s stare locked on his, cold and resolute. “You still don’t get it. You still think this is about right and wrong. Justice. You’re all still clinging to that nonsense.”

Hayes took another slow step forward.

Behind him, he heard Chloe shift. She was poised, ready to act, but also scared. He knew that tension intimately. He felt it, too.

“Dewey,” Chloe said, voice level, firm. “You wanted to be seen. You wanted your truth out. You’ve said it. Done it. There’s no going back, but you don’t need to add another body to this.”

Dewey tilted his head. “But that’s just it. This one’s different. She matters. You matter. Another betrayal that I just can’t let go of anymore.”

Hayes caught the faintest tremor in Dewey’s fingers. His mind was unraveling.

And then it happened.

A crunch of brush outside. Footsteps. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Dewey heard it, too.

He swung toward the shack’s entrance, gun raised—just as the door exploded inward with a crash.

“Drop it!” Dawson’s voice roared like a gunshot. Buddy and Remy swept in behind him, weapons drawn, tactical and precise.

Keaton and Fletcher came next, fanning out, eyes hard and scanning every inch of the room.

Dewey moved fast.

Too fast.

He swung the gun back toward Chloe.

Hayes didn’t think.

He dove.

A crack split the air—a sharp, brutal sound that echoed through the swamp like thunder.

Pain seared through Hayes’s side as he collided with Chloe, dragging her down behind an overturned table.

He heard her gasp. “Hayes!”

Blood bloomed hot beneath his shirt, soaking through as he pressed a hand to his ribs.

“Fuck.” He hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m fine. Stay down.”

“Dewey!” Dawson’s voice roared again. “Don’t make this worse!”

In the confusion, Chloe scrambled to her knees.

But Dewey didn’t shoot.

Didn’t run.

He stared at Hayes—at the blood spreading, at Chloe trying to shield him—and for the briefest moment, his face cracked.

Regret.