• Marina security footage? Unknown.
Maybe cameras had captured what happened. Or perhaps they'd captured something that contradicted the emerging narrative. Either way, I hadn't heard them mentioned.
I stared at my list. My training had taught me to distrust clean narratives about messy events. I always looked for contradictions and inconsistencies. The story of Lars Reeves dying in a yacht explosion was tidy, but maybe it was a screen for something far more complex.
Unfortunately, without Michael and his perspective, I was assembling a puzzle with critical pieces missing.
Night pressed against the bungalow windows, the tropical darkness velvet-thick and alive with sounds that should have been soothing—waves lapping at stilts and the distant music from the resort bar. I lay in bed, staring at the lazily turning ceiling fan.
"Please be okay," I whispered into the darkness.
My eyes closed against my will, exhaustion finally overpowering anxiety. Deep sleep remained elusive as my mind skimmed just beneath the surface of consciousness.
In my half-dreaming state, my brain continued its analysis, collating facts, questioning narratives, and seeking patterns in seemingly random events. If history had taught me anything—through centuries of wars and revolutions, conspiracies and cover-ups—it was this: the version everyone agrees on usually hides the truth.
And I didn't trust their story about Michael—not yet.
I drifted into uneasy dreams where explosions echoed. The smoke obscured faces I needed to see while something vital remained beyond my reach. It was something that might make sense of a day that had begun with intimacy and ended with suspicion and separation.
Chapter seven
Michael
Metalscrapedagainstconcreteas the interrogation room door swung open. The afternoon heat had transformed the small space into something between a sauna and a pressure cooker, with my shirt clinging to my back like a second skin. Sixteen hours of questioning had worn grooves into my patience.
Inspector Hauata returned with new lines etched around his eyes that hadn't been there when we started. His uniform remained crisp despite the heat, but exhaustion seeped from his pores.
"You are free to go, Officer McCabe."
I didn't move. "Just like that?"
"Not entirely like that." He glanced at the door
The man who entered wore the unmistakable uniform of American bureaucracy—a well-tailored navy suit. No badge or identification was visible. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, and he carried himself with relaxed confidence.
"Thomas Schulz, State Department." His handshake was firm but perfunctory. "Let's talk."
Inspector Hauata exited, leaving us alone in the stifling room. Schulz loosened his tie a quarter-inch—his only concession to the heat.
"You've created quite the diplomatic situation, Officer McCabe."
"I responded to an explosion. A man attacked me with a knife."
"A man who happened to be Lars Reeves, heir to one of the largest defense contractors in the states." Schulz draped himself into the chair across from me, posture casual while he rattled off steely words. "You've made powerful enemies. Fortunately, you have friends with longer arms."
"Seattle PD?"
A smile appeared briefly on his face. "Higher. Some families have more power than governments. Be grateful one of them's interested in keeping you alive. And fortunately for us, the deceased was a US national, or you would be rotting in a French Polynesian jail."
My throat constricted slightly. "Am I exonerated?"
Schulz slid a manila envelope across the table. "You're not staying long enough for that to matter."
Inside, I found my passport, a boarding pass, and customs clearance forms. They booked me on a private charter.
"There's a car waiting. We've collected your belongings from the resort." Schulz brushed invisible lint from his sleeve. "A word of advice. Whatever you saw or heard on that dock—forget it. The official report here will show a tourist tragically caught in an accident."
"That's not what happened."
