Martin Cole should have gone home an hour ago.
The island was deserted. The sun had already set amongst an array of beautiful colors, many of which were reflections of the seashells that the island is so famous for. Forty different shades of beige and white alone seemed like an amazing array of soft colors.
A storm building offshore, turning the Gulf black beneath a sky streaked with purple and steel, was truly magnificent-looking. Wind pushed through the sea oats in restless waves, carrying the smell of salt and rain across Captiva’s empty shoreline.
Martin zipped his windbreaker to his chin and checked his watch.
9:47 PM
Way too late to be out here.
Ghost crabs lined the beach.
The wildlife had gone quiet for the night.
The dolphins had disappeared in advance of the impending storm.
The egrets were resting too.
Too late to be carrying what was hidden beneath his arm.
He glanced over his shoulder.
No lights.
No movement.
No one watching.
At least that’s what he told himself.
The narrow beach stretched empty in both directions. Farther inland, a handful of homes glowed behind palm trees and mangroves, their windows casting soft yellow squares into the darkness.
All except one.
The Shaw house.
Martin stared at it for a moment.
Even after all of these years, the place still made him feel uneasy.
The old house sat above the sand on weathered pilings, silent and dark against the approaching storm.
Waiting.
Watching.
Like it knew something everyone else had forgotten.
Or tried to forget.
“Not tonight,” Martin muttered.
He adjusted his grip on the leather satchel and started walking again.
The bag felt heavier than it should.
Inside were documents.
Photographs.
Letters.
The kind of things powerful people preferred buried.
The kind of things people killed for.
