Undecided
Copyright© 2025 by Mrs. Brighton
Chapter 1
The marsh was quiet, save for the soft gurgle of water and the rustle of reeds. Molly Grimes stood at the edge, coat collar turned up against the chill, hands buried in her pockets, eyes sharp and alert. The team in rubber gloves worked methodically to pull the body from the water, the marsh’s gurgling accompanying each careful movement.
Mercer shifted beside her, wringing his gloved hands, tension showing in his posture as the body emerged.
Molly’s gaze fell on Leonard Watts’ hands. They were roughened, calloused—evidence of labor that had come long before his wealth. She crouched slightly, examining the abrasions, the fine lines etched into his palms.
“Shipyards,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Or something similar. He didn’t start with privilege.”
Mercer glanced at her. “Yeah ... not the usual high-society background. Worked his way up.”
She didn’t need him to elaborate. She could see it: the hands of a man who had clawed his way into a world that hadn’t always welcomed him. His coat was slightly worn at the seams, his posture still suggested the weight of labor—even in death.
“Doesn’t look like he ran in their circles naturally,” she said softly. “Life built from effort. The kind of man people notice when he rises.”
Mercer nodded, careful not to interrupt. “Water’s stripped most traces. We’ll have to work with what’s left.”
Molly’s eyes swept over the scene—the tangled reeds, the murky water, the vast stillness of the marsh. Nothing about it suggested an ordinary crime. No clear signs of struggle. Yet she knew that didn’t mean no one had been here.
Molly straightened fully, gaze lifting to the horizon. “Then let’s wrap this up. Time we start following the trail.”
She stepped back from the water’s edge, letting Mercer and the others finish their work. The sharp click of the camera shutter and the soft scratching of pencils against notebooks carried through the marsh as the body was carefully prepared for transport. Mercer moved deliberately, recording details with a mix of precision and unease—he was still new enough that every scene seemed to press against him.
The chill deepened as dusk settled over the reeds. Molly drew her coat tighter, her eyes lingering on Leonard Watts one final time before the men lifted him onto the stretcher. A man who had fought his way into a world that never truly welcomed him—now carried out of it by strangers in silence.
“Everything we can gather here, we have,” Mercer said at last, closing his notebook with a faint snap. He glanced at her, his voice carrying a trace of unease.
Molly nodded. “Good. Then we move on.”
The team dispersed with quiet efficiency, loading the last of their equipment. The carriage waited at the edge of the narrow path, wheels half-sunk into the soft ground. Molly and Mercer walked side by side, boots crunching against gravel as the marsh faded behind them into the gathering night.
Just before climbing in, Mercer hesitated, lowering his voice. “Before we head in ... there’s something you should know. Leonard Watts was last seen with the Hargroves.”