Page 93 of Death of a Grill Master

“Thanks, Aiden,” Hayley said, distracted. “That’s … really helpful.”

“Hey,” he said, shy again. “If you see Gemma, tell her hi for me?”

“Sure thing,” Hayley said.

“And tell her that when she gets bored with that undeserving fiancé of hers, I’ll always be here waiting!”

“I will,” she lied, already walking away, head buzzing.

By early afternoon, Hayley was back at the house, flipping through her notebook at the kitchen table. A fresh cup of black coffee steamed beside her, ignored. Leroy curled up on the floor next to her foot, snoring softly.

Aiden’s story was specific and disturbing. A figure in a wet suit, hovering in the water fifty yards from the fireworks barge, perfectly positioned to shoot Hank. The timing matched Tina’s video and Earl’s ballistics estimate. That person in the water hadn’t been watching the show—they were waiting.

Planning.

The trajectory.

The timing.

The sound cover from the fireworks.

This wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment murder. It was a surgical strike.

Which left her with three possibilities.

Three men.

Three question marks.

Doug Marsh owned the gun found in the melted cooler. His fingerprints were on it. He claimed it had gone missing after one of his cocktail parties, and she couldn’t yet confirm—or deny—that story. Doug had left Liddy’s side during the finale, claiming he needed to check on a phone call. Could he have made it out to the water and back in time? Maybe. It’d be tight. But possible.

Chase Wingate’s prints were on the bullets. Not the gun. Why weren’t his prints on the weapon itself? And if he was passed out below deck, like Kylie had insisted, then he couldn’t have been in the water.

That left Zane, who’d gone completely off the grid. A trained diver. Strong swimmer. Familiar with the currents and depth of the bay. He had motive. Maybe he wasn’t running from a setup—maybe he was running because he was the one who’d pulled the trigger.

Hayley rubbed her temple. As much as she disliked the idea, Zane was starting to look more likely than Doug.

At least for now.

But she couldn’t completely rule Doug out, either.

Not yet.

Liddy’s office was a burst of color and fragrance when Hayley walked in. A crystal vase of wildflowers sat on her desk, and she was humming to herself as she rearranged Post-it Notes on a wall calendar.

“You!” Liddy sang out. “Is this a peace offering or just a social call?”

“A little of both.” Hayley shut the door. “I need to talk to you about Doug. Again.”

Liddy gave her a look, then turned toward her sideboard with flair. “Well, if we’re going to dredge up unpleasantness, we’ll need some alcohol.”

She opened a paneled cabinet and swung out a hidden bar cart stocked like a speakeasy—gin, vodka, bourbon, amaretto, even a half-used bottle of Goldschlager. She tossed a scoop of ice into two tumblers and looked back over her shoulder. “Gin rickey or something stronger?”

“I should say no,” Hayley murmured, “but it’s been a day.”

Liddy handed her a vodka cranberry with a twist of lime, then clinked glasses. “To forgiveness. And possibly libel.”

Hayley explained what Aiden had told her—about the silhouette in the water, the location near Hank’s boat, the perfect timing. Yet another account of a wet-suited shooter near the Slaughterhouse. She admitted she’d wondered if Doug had been the one in the wet suit.