73 Another burned body

**Date = 4 July**
**Place = San Francisco (Napa)**

**POV - Enrique**

The wail of sirens tears through the quiet.
I turn just as the first Napa County fire truck comes barreling down the dusty access road, tires spitting gravel, red lights flashing across the smoke-filled riverbank. Behind it, a second truck follows — smaller — and a water tender close behind.
“Car,” Jackson gestures with his head to Miguel.
He grabs River’s arm and hardhandedly shoves the pipsqueak into the backseat of the car again. “Please … if they see you, you’ll put everyone in danger. Including Jackson and … her … understand.” She nods.
He closes the window and shuts the door. Childlock intact. Without a word, four guards surround the car. There’s no escape this time for the little hooligan.
It takes a few minutes for them to kill the flames. We watch in silence.
A firefighter in full gear steps back and signals to the others. “Secondary sweep, now! Check for reignition!”
One of them turns toward us — his face soot-smudged under the brim of his helmet. “We’ll have her cooled in five. You boys stay back. It’s still hot as hell.”
I nod stiffly, tasting ash in the back of my throat.
The smoke still hovers over the river like a bad omen, hanging thick and bitter in the summer air. The water glistens with a sheen of oil, rippling around the half-submerged wreckage and charred pieces of what used to be **Scott VII** — now nothing more than a gutted skeleton drifting on the river.
As the last flickers die out and smoke rolls low across the water, the eerie silence returns.
But this time, it feels heavier. More final.
I stand with my arms folded tight, like I can squeeze the nausea from my chest. I knew it was a trap. Either that or some plan went horribly wrong.
Jackson stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, face stone-cold and unreadable. Axel has the half-eaten granola bar in his hand, long forgotten, while he stares across the water.
“So, I got a live video,” Jackson mutters, eyes hard. That explains some.
“Gotta hand it to them — solid jamming — smooth cover up,” Axel says.
We are joined by an unmarked police vehicle with its lights flashing. Captain David Maron steps out first. Short, sharp-eyed, and sturdy, he looks around the disorderly scene. He nods at the guards as he walks towards us. Two men follow him. We know them by now — Collin ‘Shoestring’ Ringer and Matthew Stern.
The crunch of gravel under boots. Authority on a mission.
Matthew started with David on this case right after the Browns died. Collin joined not that long ago.
They step up through the dust, Maron’s undone tie flapping in the breeze. His eyes lock on us like he already knows.
Dressed in formal gray suit pants and a white button-up shirt — with sleeves rolled up, like he is halfway between a press briefing and a bar fight — he casually stops right next to my twin. Collin and Matthew stand a few steps behind.
Collin is anorexic looking, clean-shaven, mid-twenties, with eyes that don’t blink enough. Matthew is taller, broad, silent, and wearing mirrored sunglasses. My stomach twists — my gut telling me one of them isn’t right.
They greet us with an air like it matters.
David glares at the burning ship for a bit — jaw clenched, posture tight — before his eyes rest on me.
“Seems we’re a little late to the party.” Actually, I’m a little surprised to see him here so soon. This place must be way out of their jurisdiction, and the explosion just happened.
“Well, I phoned you well in advance,” Jackson sneers. “You should work on your response time.” Okay, that clears up their quick arrival.
“I’ll put that on my list of improvements,” the Captain replies with a hint of sarcasm. “You know, I think I’ve seen more of you guys these past few months than I did my wife.”
“Great, I’ll be sure to invite you to Christmas dinner then.” Smart-ass brother of mine.
But the Captain is not wrong. We’ve met more than just a few times these last couple of months.
“So why are we here?” David asks calmly, looking at me. “It’s a nasty explosion, yeah, but that’s not my department.”
I didn’t invite him. “I know less than you.”
“Eh …” Axel answers. “Same as last.”
“You found more crates?” David stares at me for a while as if gauging our sincerity. I can’t answer that, so I shrug.
“No …” he answers himself, “So really, why ARE we here?” My sincere look must be lacking.
But he keeps gawking at me. I’m just a ride-along. He should ask my bloody brother.
Jackson’s voice is cold, precise. “Got a new message. Coordinates led here.”
“We were coming down to meet the boat. We didn’t expect —” Axel glances at Jackson, then away, “— fireworks.”
Jackson grunts compliantly.
“Luckily, it blew up before we got on,” Axel mumbles, “or it was bye-bye for us all.” And he’s right. A few minutes later, we would have been toast, burned to a crisp. I think River’s stowaway disruption might have saved our lives here.
“Did you recognize the number?” David asks.
“Darren Brown’s.” Jackson is on a tell-the-truth streak. “But that fucking cunt died.” I need him to stay on track. Sometimes his anger can blow him off the railway. And it never ends well.
So I jump in, trying to keep things from going off the rails. “We were suspicious, so we called you. Decided to do it by the book.” Not that I even knew my brother called him … or that Jackson ever does anything by the book … but hey … he doesn’t know that.
David nods. “And good thing you did.” Both Collin and Matthew seem to agree with him, judging by the looks on their faces.
“Eh … that phone disappeared from the evidence locker,” Matthew mumbles. “No trace of it.” So someone stole Darren’s phone. Our rat? Or rats? I’m just gonna assume we’re looking at a mischief of them.
I glance at Jackson. My twin’s face is blank, stripped of every layer I’ve learned to read. No anger, no shock, not even denial. Just that terrible quiet, the kind he wears like armor when everything inside him is on fire.
“Did you find Graham?” Jackson gruffly changes the subject. He keeps his gaze on the vehicle River is sitting in.
I don’t know what’s brewing in his fucked up mind … I just hope he doesn’t get us into trouble with the police. Ending up in jail today is not going to work for me — I have another secret date with Aria tonight that I don’t want to miss.
“No,” The Captain shakes his head. “He just vanished. Along with Chloe Bear. Their passports say they’re still in the country, but no one knows where.”

“However, this boat was reported stolen from the St. Francis Yacht Club the day before yesterday.” Collin eyeballs my brother. “Over the phone. By Graham himself.”
“Or someone saying it’s him,” I think out loud.
“It was him. I took the call myself. He had all the right credentials,” Collin says, surely. “He must have something to do with this. All the evidence points to him.”
“Okay, great,” David sneers. “Then go and find him.” Collin sighs and starts walking away. He pauses near the SUV where River is hidden in the back, behind tinted glass.
“Matthew, you go talk to the firefighter in charge,” the Captain orders.
A low thud-thud sound is coming from inside our Jeep. Matthew also eyes the vehicle. Walks closer. Listening.
I see him stop. See him tilt his head. He hears something. The thuds stop.
Matthew turns. “Is there someone in the car?” We all tense.
Miguel throws a peep at Jackson before he answers. “One of my men,” he says. “Got hit by a piece of debris.” He lies with a straight face.
“Can I check on him?” Matthew asks eagerly. Jackson frowns deeply, his brooding eyes probing the policeman’s face. He’ll probably kill the officer rather than put River in danger.
“Why?” Jackson sneers. “Are you a doctor?”
“No … ” he stutters. “But I got a little training.”
“Already done. Broken arm, no bleeding,” Miguel says sternly.
Matthew frowns. “I can really check.”
“No need,” Axel adds, fast and flat, stepping into his path. “But thanks.”
Matthew lingers one beat too long. He glances at Collin, who is also trying to pierce through the dark windows.
Then they walk away.
We watch Collin circle to the far end of the lot, pull out his phone to make a call with his back to us. Matthew joins the firefighter who pushed us back earlier.
Axel leans in and whispers, “I don’t like them.”
“I know,” I say softly. “Don’t react.” I keep my eyes on Matthew.
Jackson broods, his eyes on Shoestring. The Captain stares at the broken boat, unaware, or pretending to be.
He looks worried. So does Axel. Not Jackson.
“So, how did this boat end up here?” David asks. Good question. Both Axel and Jackson look rather suspiciously at me. A forceful glare.
“I didn’t touch it,” I say, the most logical thing that comes to mind under pressure.
“Check the GPS,” Axel snubs softly, “And the footage from the Yacht Club.”
“And do it quietly,” he adds in a low voice, “Rats have great hearing.”
“Footage has been deleted … GPS is disabled,” David says calmly. Of course, it was. Then David asks, “Why blow it up?”
“For show,” I guess.
“Or to hide a ruined plan,” Jackson tops. “It means mine worked.”
“I thought you were improvising,” Axel glares at my twin.
“I had a plan … but fanned into a minefield. Skipped the next one due to technical difficulties. The one after that was not bad … but things got all messed up and time-sensitive … so I improvised.” For once, Jackson is the one who looks as if he got caught with his pants down. “And this desperate attempt you’re looking at now is to hide the fact that they messed up.” David looks as lost as me. “Or think they did.”
“And you didn’t think to inform me about any of this?” David sneers.
Jackson shrugs. “It was a bit of a tight schedule.”
“You’re here now,” Axel adds, “Be glad … because with you having rat problems and all, it can be dangerous for us.”
“I hear you,” David sighs. “Anything else?” He studies me again.
I pull up my shoulders. We turn towards the burning boat … standing silently in a row … watching.
He knows about as much as me — from Darren Brown and his family, right through the threesome Chloe, Amanda, and Cindy with the red shoes, straight to Graham. And Brian confessed everything he knew before he left.
Howbeit, the goons who drugged us abruptly went as quiet as a grave — no more blabbering about the Old Man or anyone else. They seem to suffer from a sudden onslaught of amnesia, saying that they don’t remember anything about anything. And they don’t know who hired them. They just say they made a big mistake.
Even so, what the Captain doesn’t know is that the baby was not mine. Or that Romeo’s accident was not an accident. Oh, and the fact that Lee’s little sister came looking for a lost sibling and is now sulking in the car.
“Captain …” Detective Matthew walks over with big strides. Shoestring follows with a curious face.
“Yes, Matthew?”
“Three bodies,” he says. “Firefighters pulled them just now. Two adult males. Seems they were shot execution style. Third one …” he hesitates. “… is small. Could be female. Or a kid. They can’t say for sure … ” he trails off. But looks directly at Jackson, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
Axel lets out a low breath and turns away. Jackson bows his head, rigid like a stone wall. I swear under my breath and scrub a hand down my face.
Is it Lee?
The silence that follows is brutal.
Matthew coughs softly. “They’re badly burned.”

“I’m coming,” David says. Matthew nods and goes on his way.
David sweeps his hands through his already messy hair, crosses his arms, and glares at me. “Let’s talk about the two men on board. You know anything about them?”
“No,” Axel answers, too fast. Did they … did Jackson … no, he won’t. Not like that. At the back of the head.
“Cowards,” I mutter. I’m slightly shocked by my words. Cause they’re not really mine … it was something Alexander always said — only a coward doesn’t look his target in the eye.
The weight of that thought sits like a stone in my gut. I blink and look at Collin. He’s watching us with beady eyes.
I run a hand through my hair, my fingers trembling now. “You think it’s Lee?”
“We’ll do a full DNA panel,” the detective replies, firm but gentle. “I’m not putting that body in the morgue under that name until I’m damn sure.”
“Good,” Jackson snubs. “I’ll give you Lee’s toothbrush. Oh, and Lee had a tattoo behind the left ear … Gemini sign.” Jackson grinds his teeth and glares at the anorexic detective as if he wants to burn him alive. “Lee was my roommate … a member of my team … someone I cared about.” It sounds like a statement. “I would like to find whoever is responsible for this.”
“It seems,” David sneers, “they want to hurt you. Not kill you. Not yet.”
“They’re playing the game wrong,” Axel mutters, also glaring at Shoestring.
I flinch. Jackson doesn’t. David looks surprised.
He nods toward the bodies being loaded into black bags down by the water’s edge. “You’ll get the official report by tomorrow. But off the record? This was a statement.”
“From who?” I ask to hear his opinion.
David looks grim. “Someone who wants you off balance. Someone who doesn’t just want you boys dead — they want you broken.”
Jackson’s jaw tightens, the muscle in his cheek ticking like a clock running out of time. His eyes stay locked on Collin, unblinking, unreadable. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough — “Then they picked the wrong boys.” Yeah. That’s for damn sure.
The thin detective gives a curt nod and moves toward the body bags lying in a row. The air shifts — heavy, hot, and full of something like dread. He crouches beside one of them, the plastic crackling under his gloves as he peels it open. The smell hits first — char, oil, something that used to be human. My stomach rolls. He reaches in, tilts the charred head, brushes away soot, and pulls at what’s left of an ear.
For a moment, everything slows — the crackle of the tape, the far-off hiss of radios, even the gulls seem to hush. Then the detective’s face changes. His eyes lift to us, catching Jackson’s first. No words, no gestures, just that look.
The tattoo’s there.
“Fuck!” Jackson scowls. “I’m going to miss the little twit.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the Captain sighs. “Remember the toothbrush. I want to be one hundred percent sure.” Jackson nods.
“I need to go. Be available for questioning tomorrow.” David starts walking down to where Matthew and Collin are examining the bodies. “I’ll come to you,” he says over his shoulder.
“Bring your rats,” Jackson says, soft but assertive. We walk to the Jeep.
River thumps on the car window again. “Can I come out now, or is the world still ending?”
Axel doesn’t answer. None of us does.
“That fucker wanted you here. To watch Lee die,” Axel says bitterly. Jackson’s fists are trembling. This whole setup stinks of psychological warfare. Not a straight hit.
They’re after us. Trying to rip us apart. All of us.
“It’s a message,” I snap.
“Message received,” Axel says darkly.
“You should get into the car,” Miguel says, opening the door for my brother. “There are beady eyes around.” I look around. Both Matthew and Collin are staring at us. Observing.
Jackson gets into the Jeep. I hold Axel back.
“So is Lee really dead?” I ask him up front. Softly so River can’t hear.
He sighs listlessly. “Figuratively, yes.” And gets into the Jeep.
Whatever the fuck that means, I don’t know. Two gulls sit on the roof of the orange building. Quacking as if blaming us for disturbing their spot. But they’re also chirpy and glad to be alive.
With one last look at the burning boat and the three charred bodies, I also get in. Right now, all I care about is sinking into my girlfriend — again and again — until I’m rid of all these cropped-up feelings and gross burned images.
The engine rumbles to life, low and steady, but it feels too normal against the chaos we’re leaving behind. No one speaks as Miguel eases the Jeep forward, wheels crunching over gravel. The fire shrinks in the rear window, but the smell — smoke, fuel, charred wood —clings to us like it doesn’t want to let go.
“It just blew up,” River chirps. I try to block out her voice and listen to the sound of the engine. The Jeep purrs like a panther on the prowl. Soft. Relaxing.
She sits opposite me, next to Jackson, legs crossed, hoodie pulled over her head like a cocoon, sticky from sweat and smoke and the horror of not having had carbs in over two hours. Her face is smudged with dirt, grime, the glitter of salt from dried tears, and whatever snack crumbs she’s snuck from the mini-fridge.
She doesn’t stop talking. Ever. Her voice is this high, nasal buzz cutting through the claustrophobic air of the compartment, ricocheting off my already frayed nerves. Random questions, impossible ones. She swings between theories, guesses, and pointless facts, not even pausing for breath. Questions no one has the balls to answer, questions that scrape like claws at the silence I’m trying to drown in.
Slumped like I’ve been emotionally run over, with my jaw clenched, I try very hard to pretend I am meditating, though really I’m just counting seconds, fighting the urge to wrap one of the Guanaco wool blankets hanging behind my seat around her mouth. Not hard. Just enough to cut the noise, just enough for peace.
The only reason I don’t?
The pity gnawing at me. Because beneath the nonstop chatter and the crumbs and the fake bravado, I know what she saw. The bodies. She’s not stupid — she must feel the same sick twist in her gut that I do. She must suspect one of them could be her sibling.
And that makes her noise less about irritation — and more about survival.
Leaning back, one foot up on the empty seat, head tipped against the glass like he wants to merge with it and escape this reality entirely, Axel stares blankly through the window, smelling faintly of gasoline, despair, and a spicy cologne mixed with sweat.
Slouched like a mafia boss who hates everything, Jackson occupies his seat with arms crossed, face grim, and don’t-talk-to-me energy.
River opens the snack bar and pulls out a sucker. She stuffs it in her mouth, silencing her.
The Jeep is quiet for a bit. That special kind of quiet only wealthy trauma survivors can afford — plush leather seats, ambient LED lighting, triple-insulated windows that muffles even the wind’s opinion.
But chaos incarnate, trauma-baked and fry-deprived, River is not done talking. Not even close.
“I was right there in the car, guys. Locked in like an emotional support hamster. Watching the whole thing like it was HBO.”
I groan profusely.
“You were not supposed to be there,” Axel moans. Why is he even talking? It will only encourage her.
“I was involved. That’s what matters,” she snaps, unwrapping a protein bar like she is defusing a bomb. “Besides, your rescue missions suck.”
That earns her two side-eyes and one barely repressed snarl from Jackson.
“I’m sorry, but can we just be honest for one second?” River continues, tearing the bar in half and somehow making it look aggressive. “With your rescues, something always explodes, I get locked in a car, there are bodies in bags, and you end up emotionally constipated.”
“Sometimes,” I mutter without opening my eyes. “It involves flaming helicopters and dead cats.”
“And exorcisms,” Axel adds, head still against the glass.
“And goats,” I say flatly, taking a peek at her.
River looks delighted.
“Trues?” she beams.
“Yeah, now keep quiet,” I plead.
“Oh, now you want peace and quiet? I’ve had to sit in this trauma Jeep for forty minutes while Jackson pretends he’s broken and you two take turns sighing like the world owes you something.” She pauses to take a breath.
“But it’s at least better than sitting in front of that funeral home, waiting for you to steal some dead person.”
“You stole a body?” I gawk.
Axel pats my leg. “It’s okay, buddy. You’ll get your emotional closure after the next fake death.”
I’m rather shell-shocked. “You committed like … twelve felonies.”
“More,” Jackson speaks for the first time. “But who’s counting. We saved her,” he says simply.
“You blew up a corpse, bro.”
Jackson shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Axel blinks. I gasp. “Wait. What*?*”
River bites into the bar, chews, and mutters around it — “Can we get some real food?”
She slumps down into the seat, hoodie bunched around her chin, knees pulled up. Her voice softens a little, but not enough.
“You know that since last year, my mom has drawn the same devil card for Lee?”
Jackson doesn’t look at her. His jaw twitches once.
“Like clockwork. Shuffle the deck, boom — devil. Clean the table, light a candle — devil. Every single time.”
“She actually believes that crap?” Axel asks.
“Yeah … she gets it wrong a lot,” River tops. “My mother runs the weirdest little psychic stand in Portland. She reads cards, smokes weed, burns sage, and chants in fake Latin.”
“She sounds fun,” I chuckle.
“She’s a nightmare in a peasant blouse,” River mutters. “But she knows stuff. Like how Lee is drawn to darkness. And will fall in love with the Devil himself. And honestly?” She looks sideways at Jackson. “I’m not ruling that out.”
I groan. “Please don’t tell Jackson he’s the devil. He’ll lean into his name.”
“He’s already leaning into it,” River replied. “Look at him. Black shirt, black boots, black mood. I’m surprised this Jeep doesn’t play Gregorian chants when he enters.”
Jackson didn’t so much as blink. He just kept brooding. Focused. Silent.
“That’s fine,” River mutters. “I’m good at one-sided therapy. And you can’t run away or hide from fate. Nor bad luck.”
“Do you believe in that?” I ask. “Fate?”
River thinks about that.
“I believe in Lee,” she says. “And in the devil.”
“You sound older than you are,” Axel grumbles.
“I should,” River smirks. “You try growing up with a mom who reads palms for people who cry over their divorce in our kitchen, and a dad who lost his leg in a dumb accident and gambled away what little money we ever had. I earned every gray hair on this prepubescent head.”
That makes me pause to wonder where she gets all this stuff. But I know. Lee.
“I know, right?” River chirps. “I’m the stable one in my family.”
“Is that what you call it?” Axel teases. But true Moore style, she’s ready with a comeback.
She gives him a sweet smile. “Better than being emotionally mute and dressed like a discount hitman.”
I snort. Jackson’s mouth twitches. Barely.
Axel rubs his temples. “This is what it’s like living with you?”
“Every day. Full package. No refunds,” she smiles, showing off her dimples. The same ones as Lee. “Now, about getting some real food …”
We instruct Miguel to hit a takeaway. He veers off the road toward a neon-lit diner that looks like it’s seen a murder or three. The Jeep idles in the drive-through, and I open the window and order food for everyone, even the guards. River sticks out her head and asks about dinosaur-shaped nuggets. Which they don’t have.
We drive on.
River tears into the mozzarella sticks like a feral creature emerging from the woods. Then she tackles the curly fries.
The Jeep heads towards the mountain that’s part of Black Pit, food wrappers rustling, the smell of grease now competing with the lingering smoke scent.
“So,” River says with a yawn, licking cheese off her fingers, “about the puppy I want —”
“No.” Jackson’s final word. For once, she doesn’t talk back. She just yawns again and slumps her head against Jackson’s chest, milkshake cup dangling from her fingers like a tiny trophy of chaos.
“Diabo,” Miguel says over the intercom. “I think someone is following us.” We all look back. An old white van is a few yards behind the last Jeep.
“My brother would call that a shag-wagon,” River snips.
“Tell Joe to try and grab it,” Jackson orders. Our Jeep speeds up, while the other two slow down. They start to push the car off the road.
We slip away. The path curls towards the hidden, long, tree-lined driveway that leads to Black Pit. River is fast asleep, looking like a little angel that fell from the sky.
We reach the gates of Black Pit — tall, wrought iron, flanked by security cameras and bristling hedges.
Miguel keys in the code and speaks to the guard.
The gates open.