Page 47 of Death of a Grill Master

As they climbed back toward the Jeep, Hayley’s heart was still racing—not from the dive, but from the realization that someone might be trying to scare her off this case.

If that was the goal, it had nearly worked.

But not quite.

Chapter 17

Hayley spotted Earl lurking behind the hardware store, doing his best impression of a man deeply invested in the workings of a busted vending machine. He had one foot propped on the concrete slab and a notepad in hand, scribbling furiously as he squinted at the soda slot.

“Let me guess,” Hayley said, strolling toward him. “Vandals? Or did the machine just refuse to cough up your Mr. Pibb again?”

“Keep your voice down,” Earl hissed, glancing toward the street. “You want to get me fired? Maddox has been patrolling this area like a bloodhound. And it’s called Pibb Xtra now!”

“Apologies to the rebranding team.”

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, eyes still darting around. He subtly handed her a brown paper bag. “Here.”

Hayley peeked inside. A muffin—blueberry—and what looked like an official manila folder folded in thirds.

“You brought me evidence and a snack. How thoughtful.” Then she grinned. “I’ll make sure Mona hears about this. Anything to keep her from dumping you over the age difference.”

Earl scowled. “She says I’m too young for her. Says she needs someone with more life experience and less enthusiasm for chicken wings.”

Hayley grinned. “Well, she’s not wrong on either count.” She pulled out the folder and flipped it open. Her eyes scanned the report.

“You’ll want the second page,” Earl muttered.

She flipped it and found the ballistic-trajectory diagram. Her pulse quickened. The report detailed the angle of bullet entry—upward, from below the rib cage. The path curved toward the upper thoracic cavity, consistent with a projectile fired from below the victim’s position.

“Which means,” Hayley whispered. “the shot didn’t come from another boat.”

Earl nodded gravely. “It came from the water.”

Hayley felt a rush of vindication and horror.

“Then it has to be either a dolphin with good aim or someone in a wet suit,” Earl muttered, eyes still scanning the alley for any sign of his boss.

She gripped the folder. “Zane. Or Hannah. Or maybe someone else we haven’t even considered. But someone used the harbor—the cover of fireworks and the darkness—to get close. What if they were waiting there the whole time? Just beneath the boat, ready to strike?”

Earl grimaced. “It fits. The upward angle, the chaos during the show, all of it.”

Hayley looked back toward the sidewalk. “It had to be someone experienced. Someone who could move underwater, unnoticed. Zane’s dive logs show missing gear that night. But Hannah’s kayak was out there, too. We just don’t know when or where exactly.”

Earl opened his mouth to respond—but the crunch of gravel cut him off.

A squad car rolled up in front of the hardware store.

“Uh-oh,” Earl breathed.

Chief Caleb Maddox stepped out of the driver’s seat, his tailored dark jacket crisp as ever, badge gleaming in the late-morning sun. He looked around, surveying the scene like a man who didn’t trust anything that wasn’t nailed down.

“Hayley, hide,” Earl whispered harshly.

“What?”

“Behind the vending machine!”

“I’m not hiding behind a—”