PSYCHOlogical: A Novel, page 22
“Did you turn in your badge?” he asked.
I nodded. “I did.”
“How’d it go?”
“Better than expected. It’s over.”
He reached into his pocket, removed his phone, and flipped it open. The glow from the phone’s screen illuminated the sharp line of his jaw. I watched curiously as he pecked at the keys with his thumb. When he was done, he smirked, and then shoved the phone into his pocket.
My phone pinged.
He tilted his head toward the sliding doors. “Better see who’s texting you.”
I got my phone from the night stand, returned to the deck, and opened the text. It was a response from Vincent’s burner phone to a text I’d sent him on the night Jack kidnapped me. I gazed at the two text messages.
ME: What are we going to do when this is over?
VINCENT: Spend a lifetime trusting one another.
I looked up. Vincent was gazing toward the pitch-black horizon. The light from the bedroom illuminated one side of his handsome face. I had one more thing I felt a need to admit. Saying it was a risk, but a risk I was willing to take.
“I love you,” I said softly.
He looked at me and smiled. “I love you, too.”
Epilogue
The starboard side of the fishing boat drifted alongside the row of mangroves. The trees, an important part of the subtropical ecosystem, thrived in the shallow waters where freshwater and seawater mixed.
The boat captain brushed the bill of his cap up with the pad of his thumb and wiped the sweat from his weathered brow with the back of his hand. “Cast your lines two feet this side of those mangroves, fellas. There’ll be more Snook in there than you’ll be able to reel in.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about thirty minutes before they’re gone. If you hook one, swing your pole to the first mate. She’ll get you baited for another cast.”
The two fishermen who had chartered the boat, both retired Army majors, eagerly cast their lines into the shallow water. Within seconds, each of their lines were pulled taut by one of the feisty fish.
“Keep your tips up,” the boat captain shouted. “You’ll lose ‘em if you don’t. A Snook will put up one hell of a fight, for sure.”
Within seconds, each man had a sizeable fish on the vessel’s deck.
“Take a good look at ‘em, boys. Florida’s rule for Snook is one fish per day, per man. You can’t buy ‘em, and you can’t sell ‘em. You can catch ‘em yourself and take ‘em home for dinner, though. If you’re satisfied, tell the first mate. If not, keep fishing until you are. We’ve got twenty-five minutes until they’ll quit biting.”
Both men, eager to catch a noteworthy specimen, released their catch and continued. Twenty minutes—and thirty fish—later, the two exhausted men compared their day’s catch to each other’s.
The American flag fixed atop the pole whipped in the wind as the boat accelerated through the Gulf’s still waters. The boat captain directed the boat’s bow toward the shoreline. He had another tour scheduled in an hour, a deep-sea fishing expedition with five men who’d flown in from New Jersey for the weekend.
“Noticed that tattoo on your arm,” one of the men said, nodding his head toward the boat captain’s bicep. “Marine?”
The boat captain gave a prideful nod. “Yes, Sir. Retired.”
“How long ago did you retire?”
“The first time I retired, we moved here, and I bought this boat.” The captain wiped his brow, recalling his return to military service. “The second time I retired? Wasn’t but a few months ago.”
“Combat vet?” the major asked.
The captain chuckled a dry laugh. “All my service was combat-related.”
The retired major shook his head in disbelief at the captain’s devotion to the military. “I bet you’ve got some stories to tell.”
The captain glanced over his shoulder and met the major’s curious stare. “Stories?” he asked in rhetoric. “I could tell you plenty of ‘em. There’s one catch, though.”
The major grinned. “What’s that?”
“If I told you,” the captain said, his tone thick with intention. “I’d have to kill ya.”
Also by Scott Hildreth
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Devil's Disciples Series
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Filthy Fuckers MC
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Scott Hildreth, PSYCHOlogical: A Novel
