A shadow fell across the bench, bringing me out of my thoughts.
"Ms. Landry."
I looked up. A man loomed over me. His eyes tracked the tears on my face, but he ignored them. I appreciated that.
He was middle-aged, Black, with a gut that strained against his polo shirt and a salt-and-pepper beard that neededtrimming. He looked like somebody's favorite uncle. Like the man who would grill the burgers at the family cookout and tell bad jokes while he flipped them.
I had managed to talk to him once when I didn't have money to hire him. He listened. He felt bad for me. He liked Mary. She was the one who had initially met with him in person.
Marcus Webb was not what people expected when they heard the wordsprivate investigator, but he was a good one according to Mary's friend. He was the reason I had a lot of the evidence I had on my father.
"Mr. Marcus," I said. "You made it on time even though I called you last minute. Thank you."
He sat down on the bench beside me, keeping a respectable distance. His knees cracked when he bent them. "I don't keep women waiting. My mama raised me better than that."
I almost smiled.
I reached down and picked up the duffel bag at my feet instead. It was heavy. Fresh out of the bank. The teller had looked at me funny when I withdrew it—all those hundreds, stacked and banded—but she hadn't asked questions.
"Thank you for trusting me. I told you your work would be paid for," I said, handing him the bag.
He had been working for free for six months. He was my plan before I knew who Killian was. The day before my birthday, he was supposed to deliver everything he found to my lawyer if I couldn't get out. He had emailed me everything he'd found when I told him I had.
He was the second person after my lawyer who I called from the hotel room when Cartier handed me a new phone. I asked him to keep tabs on my father.
"Where are they?" I asked.
Marcus pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. He didn't hand it to me right away. Just held it between his fingers, tapping it against his knee like he knew what I was about to do and was giving me time to back out.
I wouldn't.
"They're at the beach house in Clearwater," he said. "It's on Gulf Shore Boulevard. Big white thing with a lot of windows. You can't miss it. There's a big fucker on them, though. Always around. Drives a black SUV with tinted windows. He's not a local. Not any of them alphabet boys."
I nodded. "I know who that is." He was referring to Cartier.
He handed me the paper. I unfolded it. An address. A hand-drawn map of the property.
"Thank you for trusting me."
"No problem. I would have done it for free after I heard your story. I got a daughter," he said quietly. "She's fifteen. If somebody did to her what they did to you..." He shook his head. "Let's just say I wouldn't be hiring a private investigator."
Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping low.
"I told you I could handle that for you. There's a lot of ways to make people disappear in this state. The swamp's real hungry this time of year. Gators don't ask questions. It won't cost you nothing. Mary wouldn't have to worry about you no more. You'd be safe."
He wasn't joking. I could see it in his face. He could end this for me. All of it. No witnesses. No evidence. Just gone.
My heart beat steady.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said. I didn't want to involve anyone else. Mary had been the reason I survived that house. Killian had been the one who got me out of it. It was time I learned how to stand on my own.
He nodded once. Slow. "You do that."
Marcus stood up. His knees cracked again. He picked up the duffel bag like fifty thousand dollars weighed nothing. It was twenty thousand more than we'd agreed on.
"Nice doing business with you, Ms. Landry. Stay safe. Tell Mary to call me."
I stood too. Held out my hand. He shook it. His grip was warm.