Page 66 of Death of a Grill Master

“I respect that,” Mona said. “So I don’t expect you to help us. Just pretend you left the case on the kitchen table. Maybe go watch the Patriots game in the living room and forget we ever had this discussion.”

Bruce checked his phone and then glanced between them. “That game’s already in the fourth quarter,” he said, tempted.

“I swore I wouldn’t leak anything to Hayley,” Earl whined.

“Then don’t,” Mona replied, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Just go relax, enjoy the game.”

“I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.”

Hayley bit her lip, watching the two of them square off.

“I respect your integrity,” Mona added, softening just a touch. “And I don’t expect you to break the rules. But you also know me. You’re not going to stop me, and I love you for not trying.”

Earl sighed. Long and theatrical. Then he opened the fridge, and said. “Okay, but like Bruce said, the game’s in the fourth quarter. You two better work fast.”

“Earl—” Hayley started.

But Earl had already reached into the fridge, grabbed a beer, and cracked it open. “Don’t make me feel worse,” he said gruffly as he retreated down the hall.

Bruce lingered. “Do you need me?”

Hayley arched an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“I mean, I want to help, but it’s fourth and goal.” Bruce looked genuinely torn. “If you find anything good, you’ll tell me, right?”

“I’ll give you a full play-by-play,” Hayley promised.

“Then I’m out,” Bruce said, grabbing a beer and following Earl. “Go, Pats!”

Mona was already scooping up the phone case and striding toward her cluttered back office. “Mona Barnes. Lobsters by day,” she muttered, “digital locksmith by night.”

Hayley trailed behind, stepping over a pile of oyster traps and a laptop propped up on a stack of old clamming licenses. Mona’s desk looked like Radio Shack had exploded on it—cables, drives, a soldering kit, even a tiny drone missing one blade. A tangled mess of cords, monitors, and half-assembled computer towers filled every corner. Old fishing charts and novelty mugs shared shelf space with networking gear and a stack of overdue water bills.

Mona booted up a tower that made an ominous whirring noise, then slapped the side of it like she was waking up an old dog.

“Your boys taught you this?” Hayley asked, watching as Mona expertly connected a cable from her laptop to the phone case.

“They owe me for the roof I put over their heads,” Mona said. “Now, let’s see what Tina Whitmore has been up to lately.”

She slid in the SIM card from the phone and tapped a few keys with surprising finesse. “Boys taught me a few tricks. This program bypasses pattern locks by triggering a file system corruption that opens recovery mode. Little bit of digital voodoo. The phone will think it’s been bricked and open up just enough to let us look inside.”

“I’m impressed,” Hayley said.

The connection wasn’t immediate. The waterproof case had done its job, but some of the files were corrupted. Mona muttered to herself, fingers flying across the keyboard. She pulled up an interface that looked like something out of a spy movie—lines of code blinking as she bypassed the password lock.

“Boom,” Mona said with satisfaction. “She didn’t stand a chance.”

The screen flickered and began to populate with data.

“Okay,” Hayley breathed, leaning in. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The first video was of Tina on a boat with students, collecting seaweed samples. The next was some kind of department outing—a clambake with professors toasting with plastic cups and laughing over paper plates. One was just a blurry shot of a lecture hall, the camera tilted sideways, the audio full of static.

“Nothing useful,” Hayley said, deflating.

“Patience, Grasshopper,” Mona muttered.