Page 67 of Death of a Grill Master

Then another file loaded—a video, time-stamped the night of the fireworks. Tina’s voice was faint, drowned by the distant boom of shells overhead. The footage was grainy and jerky, the phone jostling as if she was swimming with it.

The screen jittered, filled with static. Then it cleared.

A burst of fireworks lit up the sky above Frenchman’s Bay.

The camera jostled—Tina had clearly propped it on a rock or maybe wedged it into her dive gear. Waves slapped against the hull of a boat just out of frame.

Then, a shape broke the surface.

A diver.

Hayley held her breath.

The footage was too grainy to make out a face. But the figure rose from the water in the distance, maybe twenty feet away from a recognizable boat: the Slaughterhouse.

“That’s Hank’s boat,” Hayley whispered.

“Sure is,” Mona murmured.

The diver pulled something from a watertight satchel. He moved strangely—broader than Zane, heavier in the shoulders. The image shook again as a firework crackled loud enough to rattle the mic.

Then the clip ended.

Hayley stared at the screen. “Someone used Zane’s gear. Or planted some to throw us off. That cave wasn’t just a hideout. It was a setup.”

Mona sat back, rubbing her chin. “You think Tina saw too much. And someone made sure she couldn’t talk about it.”

Hayley nodded, heart pounding. “Whoever planted the gear in that cave—this wasn’t random. Zane knows more than he’s saying. He has to.”

Earl appeared in the doorway, Bruce right behind him, looking sheepish.

“Did you find anything?” Bruce asked.

Hayley held up the phone. “Yeah. And I need to get it to Maddox.”

“Not sure where he is,” Earl said, then hesitated. “Actually, I do. He’s having dinner with Randy and Sergio.”

Hayley blinked. “Seriously?”

“You’re not going over there now, are you?” Bruce asked. “They’re in the middle of a dinner party. You’ll look like a nosy journalist.”

“I am a nosy journalist,” Hayley shot back.

Bruce frowned. “Hayley, I can’t go. Maddox barely tolerates me as it is. I don’t want to burn that bridge.”

“You afraid of a little confrontation?” she teased. “Coward.”

“I’m a pragmatist,” he said. “Bring me leftovers.”

Hayley stuffed the phone into her purse. “Wish me luck.”

“If it gets ugly, text me a safe word,” Bruce muttered as she left.

The porch lights were on when Hayley reached Randy and Sergio’s place near the Shore Path. She hesitated before knocking, her stomach in knots. The windows glowed with the cozy amber of pendant lights, laughter spilling faintly through the glass.

She knocked once, then again.

Sergio answered, wearing a crisp button-up and a broad smile.