Forsyth Park looked almost unreal in the late afternoon light—golden sun filtering through Spanish moss, the fountain spraying mist into the warm Savannah air, and families strolling by as if the world wasn’t capable of burying its darkness under beauty.
Harper sat rigidly on a chipped green bench, her fingers closing around the folded half-page note in her pocket like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Don’t trust Mason.
Her father’s handwriting burned behind her eyes.
Isla paced in front of the bench, arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her worry written in every line of her face. She kept glancing around, as though Mason might slip out from behind a magnolia tree at any moment.
“He’s not here,” Harper murmured.
“You don’t know that,” Isla whispered. “Mason knows everything in this family.” She paused, voice shaking. “He always has.”
Harper gestured for her to sit. Isla sank down beside her, the park fountain’s steady splash filling the silence between them.
“For the last few weeks,” Isla finally said, “your dad wasn’t himself. He was nervous. Avoiding calls. I overheard him arguing with someone outside by the back gate.”
Harper tensed. “With who?”
“A man from the docks. Oz Reed. You know him—your dad used to bring him around sometimes. Rough guy, but decent.” Isla twisted her fingers together. “They weren’t arguing like friends. It sounded… intense. Your dad kept saying he didn’t owe anyone anything. That the numbers didn’t add up.”
Something cold slid down Harper’s spine.
Her father had been meticulous with money. If he said numbers didn’t add up, he meant something serious.
“Isla,” Harper said slowly, “are you telling me Dad was in debt?”
“I don’t think he was,” Isla whispered. “I think someone wanted him to look like he was.”
Before Harper could speak, a familiar voice cut through the air.
“You two always meet in the most dramatic places.”
Detective Miguel Rivera approached the bench with his usual unhurried stride, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn leather jacket. The last time Harper had seen him was at the funeral—watching from the edge of the crowd, expression unreadable.
“Miguel,” Harper said, standing. “Thanks for coming.”
His dark eyes softened just a little. “Harper, you look like you haven’t slept.”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “Because I haven’t.”
Rivera glanced between the two sisters. “Is this about the ledgers Mason burned?”
Harper froze. “You saw that?”
“I saw the smoke,” Rivera said. “And Mason walking away from it like he’d done his good deed for the day.”
Isla hugged herself tighter.
“Detective,” she whispered, “we think something happened before Mr. Quinn died. Something involving a dockworker named Oz.”
Rivera’s jaw tightened. He took a seat beside Harper, lowering his voice.
“Good. Then we’re all on the same page.”
Harper blinked. “You already knew?”
“I had suspicions,” he admitted. “The case was closed faster than I liked. Report said accidental fall. No struggle. No signs of forced contact.” His eyes narrowed. “But I knew your father, Harper. He was careful around the docks. Too careful to slip.”
A tense silence settled.
Rivera leaned forward slightly. “After the funeral, I approached Oz Reed. He wouldn’t talk at first—kept glancing over his shoulder like someone was listening.”
“Someone like Mason?” Isla whispered.
Rivera didn’t answer directly. “Oz finally said one thing before he shut down again.” He paused. “He said your father found something he shouldn’t have. Something tied to a group that moves cargo through the Savannah port.”
Harper’s pulse hammered.
“What kind of cargo?” she asked.
Rivera exhaled, gaze drifting toward the moss-draped trees. “Oz called it the Black Boat. I don’t know if that’s a code name, a ship, or a metaphor. But he said your father found fake numbers—laundered accounts tied to that name.”
Harper felt the world tilt for a moment.
Fake accounts.
Burned ledgers.
Her father warning her not to trust Mason.
And now a cryptic “Black Boat.”
“What does Mason have to do with any of this?” Harper forced out.
Rivera hesitated. “I can’t prove anything yet.”
“But you suspect him,” Harper said quietly.
Rivera met her eyes, a flicker of protective heat behind his calm façade. “I suspect Mason has been involved with some people who want to make certain paperwork disappear. And your father’s death did them a favor.”
Isla shuddered.
The park suddenly felt too open, too exposed.
Harper sat down again, gripping the cold metal of the bench. “If this is true… then I need to find the rest of Dad’s records. The real ones. The ones he hid.”
Rivera studied her carefully. “That’s dangerous.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should,” he said gently. “If your father was pressured, threatened, or worse… then whoever’s involved won’t hesitate to come after you.”
Harper swallowed the fear rising in her throat.
Fear didn’t matter.
Truth did.
She stood, the dying sun casting her shadow long across the path.
“Miguel,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest, “I’m going to find out what really happened. With or without help.”
Rivera cursed softly under his breath. “I figured you'd say that.”
Isla grabbed Harper’s sleeve. “Please don’t do this alone.”
Harper squeezed her hand. “I’m not. I have you.” She turned to Rivera. “And I hope I have you too.”
Rivera shook his head with a resigned sigh. “You do. But we’re doing this quietly.” His gaze sharpened. “No one else hears about it—not even your mother.”
Harper nodded.
The wind caught the Spanish moss above them, pulling thin strands of green-gray silk toward the darkening sky.
Her father’s world had drowned beneath secrets.
She wasn’t going to drown with it.