Page 11 of Wild Sentinel

"Yeah. I got his number, if you want it.”

"That would be helpful.”

She texted me the contact information for Elijah and Greg.

I thanked her for the information, offered our condolences once again, then said our goodbyes.

JD and I walked back to the Porsche.

It was getting late. We headed back to Diver Down. I figured we'd catch up with Greg in the morning.

"Think she's involved?" JD asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe she was having an affair with Benjamin just to get him to off her husband.”

I'm sure Chelsea could whisper in a man's ear in a way that murder wouldn't sound like such a bad idea.

By the time we took a seat at the bar in Diver Down, Teagan had our drinks poured and waiting for us. The teal-eyed beauty was always a delight. "Rough evening?"

"A curious evening," I replied, then filled her in on the incident.

She lifted a surprised brow. "That's kind of crazy.”

"What do you think? Was it an accident, or cold-blooded murder?"

Teagan always had good intuition, though she never really liked to use her supposed psychic ability. She always felt like it was inviting bad mojo. Nothing’s free.

“Sorry,” I said. “After your last experience, I shouldn’t ask questions like that.”

“No. It’s okay. It’s part of who I am. I need to accept that.” To my surprise, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thought about it. Her face tensed, and she struggled. After a beat, she said, "Sorry. I got nothing." She shrugged. "It comes, and it goes.”

"Well, it was worth a shot," I replied. "If anything comes to mind, let me know."

"You'll be the first to know."

"How are you holding up?” Her recent voyage was quite the adventure.

She smiled. "I’m great. It's all good."

JD and I sipped a few drinks and shot the breeze with Teagan before heading back to the boat and retiring for the evening. I took Buddy out for a quick walk. The little Jack Russell was eager to stretch his legs.

Afterward, I crawled into bed and drifted off to dreamland. My subconscious tried to put all the pieces together. It just came out as a jumbled mess that didn’t make any sense.

I woke with the sunrise. Amber shafts of light seeped through cracks in the blinds. I pulled myself out of bed, showered, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and headed down to the galley to fix breakfast.

Bacon sizzled in the pan, and I cracked fresh eggs. Coffee brewed, filling the galley with a delightful aroma.

Jack stumbled out of his stateroom with tousled hair, just in time to dish up a plate. We ate on the sky deck and took in the morning sun while it was still cool. JD and I filled our bellies, kicking around theories.

Afterward, we collected ourselves, left the boat, and hustled to the parking lot. We hopped into the Porsche and set out to find Greg Russell.

7

"Istill can't believe it," Greg said when we caught up with him on his sailboat. It was a nice older 42-foot Swell Rider in the Mangrove Bay Marina. The boat was known for its spacious interior with lots of light and a cozy layout. But it wasn’t the fastest or most maneuverable boat on the water. Something told me it didn't leave the slip much. A great liveaboard.

It was clear Greg hadn't amassed the same wealth as Jonathan. He’d probably made enough to retire on the boat, and that was that. From a distance, the dressy Casio on his wrist looked like a Rolex, and it probably kept better time.

His eyes misted, and it was easy to see the conversation was hard for him. Greg was a fit guy in his mid-40s with salt-and-pepper hair, square jaw, deep tan, and stylish casual attire. He may not have been loaded, but he carried himself well.