Page 12 of Death of a Grill Master

Her hair clung to her cheeks, and the blanket hung low on her bare shoulders. She looked pale. Shaky. Her mascara had run and her flip-flops slapped on the deck with every slow step.

“She fainted and hit her head after seeing Hank,” Earl said. “EMTs checked her out. No concussion. Just shock.”

Sergio stepped forward. “Kylie. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She nodded slowly, blinking rapidly. “I can’t believe it.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know. We were on the boat earlier. Barbecuing. Drinking. Just hanging out, waiting for the fireworks to start. Hank and I got into a spat.”

“What about?”

She hesitated. “Nothing serious. Just … dumb stuff. I had too much to drink. I got emotional. We argued. I said something dramatic and got in the dinghy to make my point.”

“Did Hank try to stop you?”

She nodded. “He yelled after me. But I just said—” She stopped. Her voice cracked. “I told him to get away from me.”

Hayley’s eyes softened.

Tears pooled in her eyes. “I can’t believe those were the last words I said to him.”

“And then you came ashore?” Sergio asked gently.

Kylie nodded again. “I went up the path. Wandered a little. I didn’t think—when I saw him—” She began to cry.

Earl guided her back toward the EMTs.

Sergio boarded Mona’s boat, and they pushed off.

They cut across the dark bay, the Slaughterhouse growing larger with every rumbling yard. The water slapped at the hull, and a breeze picked up, salty and cool. The only sound was the low throb of the motor and Mona muttering to herself about idiots who hosted BBQs on boats.

Accidents waiting to happen.

Hayley stayed near the bow, peering toward the anchored vessel.

As they pulled alongside, Sergio reached for the rope ladder and climbed aboard first. Bruce followed. Then Mona. Then Hayley.

The deck of the Slaughterhouse reeked of BBQ smoke, salt water, and something worse—something metallic and sour. Blood and meat and alcohol. A plate of ribs had been abandoned on the prep counter. A beer can lay crushed beside it. Red Solo cups were scattered everywhere.

But no people.

Sergio called out. “Anyone here?”

Silence.

Bruce motioned to the galley door. It stood ajar. Hayley slipped through it while the others remained on deck.

Down the narrow stairs, below deck, the small cabin reeked of booze and sweat. The light was dim. She turned a corner and gasped.

Chase Wingate was passed out across the bed, one arm dangling off the edge, an open bottle of bourbon at his feet.

“Chase?” she said, stepping closer.

He groaned, barely stirring.

“Chase!”