"I guess I’m leaving," I said.
Scarborough escorted me out, and we stepped around the bloodstained tiles.
"Are you just going to leave it like that?" I asked.
"Cleanup isn't our job."
I grabbed the lasagna, and we strolled down the walkway as the medical examiner's van pulled away from the curb. Curious neighbors gawked and gasped. Reporters rushed in, and camera lenses focused. Microphones were shoved in my face.
"What’s your name?"
"What can you tell us?"
“Records show the house is owned by Grayson Mitchell. Is he the deceased?"
The barrage of insensitive questions continued. They didn’t care about me or Grayson. They just wanted details. A sound bite.
"Listen, let me give you a ride,” Scarborough said. “You've been through a traumatic experience. And I think I came on a little strong before. I'm sorry if I pressed too hard. You have to keep in mind, we come into these scenarios not knowing anything. And when something looks suspicious, it sets off alarm bells."
I didn't really want to stand around, waiting for a cab while these vultures swarmed, so I accepted his offer. I hopped into his Camaro, and he drove me back to the marina.
The news crews tried to follow, but Scarborough had a heavy foot. With a few twists and turns, we left them in the dust. He didn’t have to abide by the law.
Scarborough tried to make small talk along the way, but I wasn't present. My mind replayed the events in slow motion, frame by frame. I tried to make sense of what had happened, but it was senseless.
It was a short ride to the marina—10 minutes. Scarborough dropped me off by the dock, and I climbed out of the car.
"Take care of yourself. I'll be in touch."
He pulled away, and I kept my head on a swivel as I hustled down the dock to theIntrepid. I boarded the boat with caution, made a beeline for my backup pistol, and pulled it from the compartment in the forward berth. I press-checked the weapon and holstered it.
The boat creaked and groaned, gently swaying. The rigging clinked against the mast, and water lapped against the hull. It was quiet in the marina this time of night, and the air had an eerie stillness to it.
Tyson showed up an hour later.
15
Tyson banged on the stern of the boat and shouted my name.
I climbed the ladder and poked my head out of the cabin.
"Are you okay?" he asked, keeping his head on a swivel.
"Okay might be a stretch, but I'm all right."
"Let's take a walk."
My brow knitted with confusion. "Where are we going?"
He gave me a head nod toward the parking lot.
I climbed out of the boat, moved across the cockpit, and joined him on the dock. We took a leisurely stroll through the marina, the boats swaying in their slips, the moon glowing overhead.
“Have you checked your boat for surveillance devices?"
"No. You think…?"
He nodded. "If I was running an asset like you, I'd be concerned. I’d keep you under surveillance."
