Page 97 of Death of a Grill Master

“She was talking about Baird,” she murmured. “She must’ve seen him that night—coming out of the water.” Hayley’s fingers tightened around the flyer. “It was him. It had to be.”

She folded the paper and tucked it into her bag.

“Thanks for calling me,” she said quietly.

That afternoon, Hayley slipped into a back seat in the COA lecture hall. The room was a sleek mix of exposed wood and glass, with sunlight cutting through the windows and gleaming off rows of laptops, tablets, and one student discreetly recording audio into her smartwatch.

Peter Baird stepped up to the podium, squared his notes, and launched into his lecture: “Predator Behavior in Coastal Ecosystems.”

He spoke with the practiced ease of a man used to controlling a room—not dynamic, but assured. His tone was clinical, but his metaphors landed.

“True predators,” he said, “don’t announce themselves. They don’t bare their teeth or growl. The most effective predators blend in. They adapt. They observe. They strike only when the conditions are perfect.”

Hayley felt a cold shiver trace her spine.

“They lurk. They wait,” he continued. “They become the thing you’re not afraid of—until it’s too late.”

He paused. His eyes scanned the room.

“Predators,” he said softly, “blend in.”

Hayley’s skin prickled. She didn’t look away.

He was talking about predators in the ocean. Or was he?

When the lecture ended, Hayley lingered until the students had packed up and drifted out in lazy clumps. Baird gathered his notes and unplugged a flash drive from the podium. When he noticed her approaching, he offered a faint smile of recognition.

“Ms. Powell. Back again.”

“I’m making a habit of it,” she said lightly. “Your talk was fascinating.”

“Glad to hear it.”

There was a pause. Then Hayley tilted her head.

“Can I ask—did you know Hank Desmond?”

Baird blinked. “No. Not really. Why?”

Hayley reached into her bag. “Because this says otherwise.”

She handed him the flyer.

He looked down—and froze. Not dramatically, not theatrically. Just a subtle change in posture. A catch in his breath. A flicker in his expression.

Then he smiled. Controlled. Careful.

“Oh. That.” He handed it back like it was meaningless.

Hayley waited patiently for him to explain.

It took a moment.

It appeared as if his mind was racing.

Then his face relaxed.

“We met a few times,” he said easily. “Hank was trying to brand a few of his sauces. He asked for help with the label design—layout, fonts, things like that. I dabble in graphic design. Side projects. I lent him a hand, he slapped my design on the flyer, and that was that. It never went anywhere.”