Page 37 of The Marine's Homecoming

"I should've listened to you sooner," I say softly. It's hard to admit that I was a fool and ignored Luke's intuition for so long. Now just five weeks till the festival, things could go horribly wrong and I'd have no one to blame but myself.

"You're listening now, okay? And we'll figure it out." Luke reaches for my water bottle, and I think for a second he's going to open it and take a sip, but he hands it to me in a very suggestive way, like how my mom gets me to do things. I roll my eyes at him but I take a sip anyway.

"What do we do?" I ask, screwing the lid back on the bottle and setting it far enough away that he can't reach it.

"I've got someone looking into Dorsey's business connections. He's a former military friend who works in intelligence consulting. He's been digging into the shell companies tied toDorsey's freight operations and the picture is getting clearer. But we need more. We need documentation of what's actually in those shipments or proof of what's in those containers."

"You're talking about going to the authorities?" The idea that this could be big enough to involve police scares me. It makes me wonder what sort of nightmare I could be facing for involving Dorsey to begin with.

"Eventually… But if we go now with shipping labels and canceled vendor orders, it's just circumstantial. Dorsey's lawyers would shred it. We need something concrete." Luke stares out at the waves and beachgoers while I wrestle with how foolish I feel. I'm glad he's not looking at me because my cheeks have to look as red as a sunburn.

"So, what do I do in the meantime?"

"Keep doing what you're doing, but don't sign anything you can't verify. And whatever you do, don't let him know you're suspicious. If he pressures you, tell him the permits are tied up in the city clerk's office and there's nothing you can do to speed it up. Buy us time."

"Us?" I say, lifting both eyebrows. It's the first time either of us has mentioned there even being an "us" and I kind of like it.

"Yeah," he says. "Us."

Our eyes meet and it makes my cheeks flush more. I look away, not wanting to feel that tug of emotion around him right now. Sometimes, it's so strong I think I'll break down and tell him I love him. Avoiding eye contact is the best way to keep that from happening.

"I should let you enjoy your day off," Luke says, reading something in my silence. He stands and brushes the sand off his shorts. "You need anything, you've got my number."

"Luke," I call, and he stops and looks down at me. "Thank you… For telling me about Dorsey and not rubbing it in my face."

"I'm not interested in being right, Hannah. I'm interested in your being safe."

The words make my heart flutter as he turns and walks back up the beach toward the bluff trail that leads to his property. I watch him go and I lie back on my blanket looking up at the clear blue sky with my hand resting on my belly.

I don't know what's coming. I don't know how to handle Dorsey or the festival or Luke or the fact that I'm carrying a baby I still haven't figured out how to plan for. But when Luke said "us", I knew he meant it. He's in this with me, like it or not, and he's going to help me figure it out.

If it were up to me, I'd go to Mayor Grant right away, but he's right. If we don't have proof, we'll just piss Dorsey off and maybe he'll run away and not get caught.

I have to trust that Luke knows what he's doing.

And I have to try like hell not to let my heart get carried away.

23

LUKE

The printer on the shelf behind Dad's desk is older than most of the boats in the marina, but it still works. I've been feeding it paper for the last twenty minutes, printing every email Rico's sent me over the past two weeks, and the stack on my desk is growing.

Shipping manifests for Dorsey's freight company show cargo routed through ports in Panama, Colombia, and Ecuador. Corporate filings for three shell companies all trace back to the same holding group registered in the Cayman Islands. A photo Rico pulled from a customs database showsTheCut Baitdocked in Balboa, Panama, eight months before Dorsey ever set foot in Bandon. Financial transfers between Dorsey's personal accounts and offshore entities don't match any legitimate vendor payments.

All of it is proof of something, but what isn't truly definitive without knowing what's in those crates. I'm sure Rico can work his magic and do some more digging, but I'm printing every single scrap and holding onto it.

Rico's last email came in at four this morning. He confirmed that the freight outfit tied to Dorsey's shell company is flagged by ATF as a known logistics network for weapons trafficking along the Pacific Corridor. They move arms through small coastal towns using exactly the kind of setup Dorsey's built here. By the time anyone notices something is off, the weapons have already moved through and the operation relocates to the next town.

The festival is three weeks out. If Dorsey's running on that timeline, the big shipments are coming soon, mixed in with the legitimate deliveries for the stages and vendor tents Hannah approved. Once the festival kicks off and the town floods with visitors, moving product through Bandon becomes even easier—more trucks, more foot traffic, more noise. It's the perfect cover.

I pull the last page from the printer and add it to the stack. Then I open the desk drawer and take out a manila folder and put everything inside. I write the date on the tab and set it next to the photos I took of the shipping labels on Dorsey's crates two weeks ago.

This is enough to take to the authorities. Rico thinks so too, but I want Hannah to see it first. She's the event chair and her name is on every permit application Dorsey filed. If the Feds come in and start pulling apart the festival, Hannah's the one left standing there trying to explain how she didn't know. I owe her the chance to understand what she's involved in before it blows up, and the chance to get ahead of it.

I tuck the folder under my arm and lock the office behind me. The plan is simple. Find Hannah, show her what Rico dug up, and figure out together how to bring this to someone who can act on it. But when I step onto the pier and look toward the east storage area, the plan changes.

Dorsey's on the dock, standing next to a fresh stack of crates with two of his crew, directing them as they wheel a dolly loaded with a long wooden container down the gangway from his boat. He's got his sleeves rolled to his elbows, which is the most casual I've ever seen him, and he's pointing and barking orders while the crew moves together like a well-oiled machine. They’ve done this before, and by the looks of it, plenty of times.