Page 115 of Death of a Grill Master

But not today.

Hayley pulled into Mona’s driveway just after sunrise, the sky still a sleepy lavender-gray. Leroy whined from the passenger seat, pawing at the window. He hated early mornings almost as much as Hayley did, but he could sense the tension in her posture, her silence, her white-knuckled grip on the travel mug filled with her third cup of coffee.

Mona answered the door in pajama pants patterned with a cartoon moose and a plain gray sweatshirt. She was halfway through a bagel and had a smear of cream cheese on her cheek.

“Please tell me you’re here to borrow sugar and not start another crime sting.”

Hayley lifted her phone. “I need backup.”

Earl was already in uniform, lacing his boots in the living room. He looked up, blinking. “You serious?”

“I’ve arranged a meeting with Peter Baird. Two p.m. At the marine lab on COA’s campus. It’s Sunday—nobody’s around.”

“Bruce signed off on this?” Mona asked.

Hayley scoffed. “Bruce would chain me to the radiator if he knew. That’s why you two are my team.”

She explained the plan. Baird thought she had new evidence—video footage. In reality, she had the truth and a need to watch his face as she laid it bare. If things went south, she’d send a single text to both of them: SOS. If they didn’t respond, she’d pull the fire alarm at the lab.

A last resort.

Earl frowned, pulling on his jacket. “Why not call Maddox now and bring him in?”

“With what? A hunch? Sure, we’ve got the murder weapon, but no prints—he must’ve worn those diver’s gloves. No confession. And the one hair sample that could tie him to the wet suit? Maddox won’t even test it. All I’ve got is me, putting the pieces together like a food columnist–turned–amateur sleuth—which, by the way, is exactly what I am.”

Mona brushed the cream cheese off her cheek with the back of her hand. “And when he realizes you’re bluffing?”

“Then you’d better not miss your cue.”

The College of the Atlantic campus was deserted by early afternoon, the kind of sleepy, gull-covered stillness only a Sunday could bring. The ocean shimmered in the distance, quiet and endless. Most of the student cars were gone, the academic buildings locked and shuttered. But the marine lab sat open, the large windows overlooking the rocks, humming quietly with the sound of circulating pumps and bubbling tanks.

Hayley arrived five minutes early. She wandered the hallway slowly, pretending to look at the placards on the walls—photos of past research trips, tide pool studies, sonar scans.

She wasn’t nervous, she told herself.

She was just … aware.

Hyperaware.

The air inside was chilly. She found the meeting room off the main lab: a long, narrow space with a steel table, dry-erase boards covered in notes, and a tall window overlooking the rear path and parking area. She pulled out her phone, double-checked her signal. Mona and Earl had texted a thumbs-up emoji twenty minutes ago. They were in position, parked in the admin lot nearby, waiting for her message.

She placed her phone on the table, screen up.

Baird entered two minutes later, punctual as always. He wore a fleece vest over a collared shirt, slacks, loafers polished to a sheen. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable.

“Ms. Powell,” he said smoothly. “You said you had something new you wanted to show me? A mysterious video recording?”

Hayley stood to face him. “There is a recording—one Tina Whitmore made the night Hank Desmond was killed. But that’s not why I asked you here.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Baird’s eyes, then vanished behind a calm mask. “Of course. And what is it you want from me instead?”

She rested her hands on the back of a chair, grounding herself. “I want you to hear my theory. What I think really happened that night—and afterward.”

Baird’s smile thinned, equal parts curiosity and contempt. “By all means. Let’s hear your grand solution.”

Hayley drew in a breath, feeling the weight of the room settle around her like an expectant jury. If he wanted a performance, she was ready to give him one—chapter and verse, every twist, every turn.

Hayley took a breath, then launched in. “You sent Hank Desmond those photos. The ones of Kylie and Chase. You knew exactly what would happen—how he’d explode, how he’d confront them both and put the spotlight on Chase.”