Page 53 of Brutal
Bad idea.
Because the moment I do, I’m right back there. Samson’s hand around my wrist. The heat of his body when he stepped too close. The way his voice dropped just before?—
I open my eyes.
No.
Not going there.
I push off the counter, move into the living room, and fire up the laptop on my desk. If I stay still, I’m going to keep replaying it. And I’m not interested in reliving the moment I almost let Samson Vexley kiss me.
Except he moved away. I didn’t. He did. Maybe he wasn’t going to kiss me at all.
I mean, look at me. I’m attractive, but I’m not the kind of arm candy a man like Samson would want. He’s gorgeous, but despite the expensive suits he wears, he’s not refined. Far from it. There’s an edge to him. A dangerous edge. I know because I’ve researched the Vexleys ad nauseum. And having now spent time in Samson’s presence?
I’m even more aware of the danger surrounding him.
I click on the file on the marina. I pull up everything I’ve already collected—notes, articles, archived reports. The official version of Victor Halstead’s death hasn’t changed in fifteen years.
Accidental fall. Poor visibility. Case closed. If others were there, they were never identified.
I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. The only difference is that now I’m in a position to learn more. To dig deeper.
I’ve been through these files, but now I look again, remembering how the bartender told me it felt like it “had to happen.”
I read through maintenance logs. City permits. Archived service requests tied to the marina property. Most of it is routine and extremely boring. Repairs, inspections, replacements that don’t mean anything on their own.
I scroll. Click. Scroll again.
I sharpen my focus. Concentrate not so much on what’s there but what’s missing.
A few entries are incomplete. Filed but not followed up. Logged without supporting documentation.
That’s interesting. I open one. It’s nothing. Just a date and a timestamp. No other details.
I back out and try another. Same thing. It’s incomplete. Why log something if you’re not going to finish it?
Unless—
You don’t want a record.
I go back further, filtering by date. I’m looking for that single night fifteen years ago.
The screen fills with entries, most of them routine. Weather-related damage. Dock checks. Minor repairs.
Then—
It’s so small that I nearly scroll past it.
A maintenance request that was filed late but timestamped within the same window as everything else that night.
I click on it. For a second, I think it’s another dead end with minimal detail, no follow-up, and no closure.
Then I see it.
Lock replacement.
I scan the entry again.
