Page 43 of Stone Coast (Tyson Wild Thriller)

I didn’t know where I was at first. It was not an unfamiliar situation. I had gotten somewhat used to the feeling of being constantly disoriented.

Then I had a vague recollection of stumbling into the apartment with Olivia. The margarita bombs still exploded in my head. My mouth was pasty and made the Sahara seem like an oasis.

Olivia‘s apartment was nice. It had a breezy, open floor plan with a bar, kitchen, and a hallway that led to the master and guest bedrooms. High ceilings with exposed beams, sleek, elegant furniture, pastel walls and coral accents.

Fashion magazines lay atop a glass coffee table.

There was a large flatscreen display, tasteful art on the walls, and bleached hardwoods.

There was no sign of Olivia, and I suspected she had met the same fate. Although she was a much more seasoned pro when it came to this kind of thing than I was.

I checked the time. It was a little after 8:30 PM .

My headache was bad enough. Dull and throbbing. That’s when the ice pick came, stabbing through my temple like a lightning bolt mixed with a brain freeze.

A slew of images flashed before my eyes.

A man with long brown hair, bleached by the sun, strutted into the Cool Cat like he owned the place.

He had a receding hairline, but the mane made up for it.

His hawkish face sported a nose that had been broken a few times.

This was a man who was no stranger to bar fights.

He had a jaw lined with stubble that looked like it could take a punch or two.

This was Ray Richmond. There was no doubt in my mind, though I’d never met the man.

Ray was 5’11” of coiled energy, ready to strike like a viper. Years of Florida sun had baked his skin to bronzed leather. His low brow forced his brown eyes into a perpetual squint. Ray was a predator through and through.

Stingray stepped into the bar with a few musclebound associates, a .38 revolver stuck in his waistband.

The vision ended.

It felt like a memory. A memory of something that hadn’t happened yet. Inevitable.

While the escape to Coconut Key sounded appealing, I’d never get to the truth without talking to Ray. But Ray wouldn’t talk to me by choice.

I staggered from the couch and crept down the hallway toward Olivia’s room. The door was ajar, and I nudged it open. She was sprawled out on the bed like a dead starfish. It seemed the high-octane margarita had gotten to her as well .

I shuffled back to the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge, coming up with a bottle of water. I twisted the top and slugged down a few gulps, trying to rehydrate.

A bad idea brewed in my head. There was no stopping it. The damn thing kept growing.

I fumbled around the apartment, trying, but not trying, to make enough noise to wake her. I figured she could talk me out of it. But Olivia was on another planet. By 9:30 PM, I had grown hungry and anxious—a bad combination.

I scavenged together a sliced turkey sandwich and stuffed my face. That settled the rumbling in my stomach. I was convinced Olivia could sleep through a nuclear war.

After the sandwich, I was still just as anxious and agitated—the bad idea continuing to fester.

I left a note for Olivia, then called for a ride share.

When the silver car arrived, I slipped out of the apartment, locked the door behind me, and hustled down the steps to the parking lot.

I figured I’d head over to the Cool Cat and confront Ray head-on.

What was he going to do? Kill me in a public place?

His place? No way. Besides, I had a little street cred.

I was a murder suspect. That had to count for something.

Don’t mess with me. I. Am. A. Bad ass . At least, that’s the attitude I walked in there with.

Did I mention this was a really bad idea?