what now? | outerbanks

• eighty-five •

This is the same day as the last chapter.

JJ

"Maybank!"
Shoupe hangs halfway from his office doorframe, face smug as ever as he calls Pope and me into his office. We've been waiting for almost an hour, and from what I could tell, I think Shoupe was just stalling because he didn't want to talk to us.
Pope walks first, calm and collected, but I can't control myself from checking Shoupe's shoulder as I pass through.
"Son—" he calls out, but I just keep walking.
I sit in one of the chairs across his desk, leaning forward on my elbows and drumming against the varnished wood. Pope sits in the chair next to me, much more polite and composed, but his responsibility won't rub off on me.
    Shoupe shuts the door behind him when he walks in, sighing like he's already tired of us being here. "Look, you two. If this is about Miller, your other friend already came and talked—"
    "We know John B. came and talked about Miller. And we know you and your stupid team keep saying you're looking into it."
    "JJ, are we going to have a problem?"
    Pope glares at me and sits up in his chair, silently telling me that he has this handled. For once, because I know how serious a deal this is, I back off. "Shoupe, this isn't just some estranged revenge kill anymore," he tells the officer. "You know that party your guys busted the other night?"
    "The one at the Buchanans' house? Yeah, I remember."
"Yeah, well, some creep drugged Wheezie with some hardcore shit."
    Shoupe's eyebrows shoot up. "Drugged?"
    "Yeah," I snap before Pope can step in. "She called Sarah from the bathroom, barely able to talk. We had to carry her out of the house. She couldn't walk, couldn't think straight, couldn't tell us what happened. You ever seen Wheezie like that?"
    There's an awkward pause. Shoupe clears his throat and sheepishly sighs, "No."
    I slam my hand on his desk. "Exactly! You haven't. Because she doesn't do drugs, Shoupe!"
    "JJ—"
    "No! She hardly even drinks, and this is how she ends up? We had to use fucking Narcan to keep her alive!"
Shoupe's whole face changes at that. His cocky mask slips for a second, and I see the weight of the word Narcan hit him right in the chest. Good. Maybe now he'll actually start acting like this matters.
"She's sixteen, man," I go on, my voice shaking with fury. "She could've died."
Pope's watching Shoupe, not me. Always the diplomat, always looking for the angle that'll make someone listen. "We're not here to start a war," he says. "We just want this taken seriously."
"It is serious," Shoupe mutters, like we're accusing him of something. "If someone slipped a minor something—"
"If?" I bark out. "There's no 'if' in this! It happened. You think we made this up? You think we're dragging Wheezie through this kind of trauma for fun?"
"JJ," Pope says softly, warning again, but I'm done playing polite.
"She called Sarah," I say, slower now, quieter but more dangerous. "Because she knew if she went to you or any of your guys, you'd file it under 'teenagers being stupid' and leave her hanging. So yeah, she called us. And we found her locked in a bathroom trying not to throw up or pass out, crying and begging Sarah not to be mad at her. And you wanna know the worst part?"
Shoupe doesn't answer, and I'd bet money he doesn't want to know the worst part, but I keep going anyway.
"She blames herself. Thinks she should've known better, that it's her fault some asshole tried to use her like she was nothing."
That lands hard. I see it in Shoupe's jaw, the way he works it like he's chewing down a reaction.
"She's just a kid," I say again, softer now. "She's Sarah's kid sister. You know that. You've known her since she was in diapers."
Shoupe finally moves. He walks around his desk and lowers himself into his chair like he's suddenly aged ten years. "You said you had to use Narcan?"
I nod. "Sarah had some. Kept some at the house when she thought Rafe might still be using and just never got rid of it."
"At the house?" he asks, confused. "You didn't take her to the hospital.
"She didn't want to," Pope says. "She's scared of them, and she's scared of people finding out about this."
Shoupe rubs a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."
"No kidding," Pope mutters.
"She didn't see the guy clearly," I say. "But he was older. Not a high schooler. Not even close."
Shoupe straightens up a little. "You said this happened at the Buchanan house?"
"Yeah. Your guys showed up and busted the party, but we were gone by then. So was the guy."
"And how do you know he's connected to Miller Construction?" Shoupe asks. "That's a big accusation."
"I chased him," I say flatly. "I saw him panic when he realized I was coming. Guy bolted, ran to his car like he had something to hide. Black SUV, tinted windows, and a damn Miller Construction sticker on the rear windshield."
"You didn't get a plate?" Shoupe asks.
"If I had a plate, we wouldn't be here begging you to give a damn!"
Pope leans forward now. "Miller was obviously killed because of the rezoning. But these guys he had working underneath him? They're angry too," Pope continues. "And now someone with ties to his company is showing up at parties drugging teenage girls? That's not a coincidence."
I nod, teeth clenched. "And that shiny badge on your shirt means you've got the power to do something about it before it gets worse."
Shoupe is quiet for a while before he finally says, "Alright. I'll pull traffic cam footage from the neighborhood that night and see if we can get a plate. If any of Miller's company vehicles were in the area, I'll find out."
"That's a start," Pope says.
"It's not enough," I add. "You need to talk to the Buchanans. Check their security footage. Hell, check the neighbors' too. These are King Kooks we're talking; all of them have security cameras watching their properties."
Shoupe exhales hard through his nose. "I'll talk to the Buchanans, but this is staying quiet. I don't want any of this out until we get more information, and Wheezie doesn't either. If you get anything else—photos, a name, anything—you bring it to me first."
"And if we don't?" I ask.
He looks me dead in the eye. "Then you'll screw up your own case and probably get yourselves hurt in the process."
His warning doesn't faze me. They never have. I don't answer him. I just lean back in the chair, arms crossed, pulse still hammering from the way this whole thing's gone down. I don't give a damn about getting myself hurt. I care about Wheezie and whoever else is going to get mixed into this next.
    Pope stands up first, offering a nod that's half thanks, half you better mean it. I follow him, slower, locking eyes with Shoupe one more time.
    "You'd better not screw this up," I say, low and quiet.
    He scoffs, and just as I'm clearing the doorframe, he says, "Hey, JJ."
    I glance back over my shoulder.
    "Keep your head down," he says. "If someone in Miller's old crew is behind this, they're going to come looking for one of you next."
    I smile, sharp and bitter. "Good. Let 'em try."
    Shoupe doesn't respond. Just watches us walk out with something dark in his eyes—some sick mix of guilt and fear.
    Outside, the sun is too bright, and the humidity sticks to my neck like a litter of ticks. Pope's walking fast, hands in his pockets, processing everything, but I hang back, pacing once we reach the lot.
    "He's only acting like he gives a damn now because we forced him to."
    "He does care," Pope says. "He's just scared. If this goes all the way up to Miller's business partners, that's serious heat."
    "Then he shouldn't be sheriff," I shoot back. "If he's too scared to protect a sixteen-year-old girl from some predator with a company sticker on his car, he should step aside and let someone with a spine do the job."
    Pope doesn't argue. Probably because he knows I'm right.
    "I just can't believe we're trusting him with this," I mutter.
    "We're not," Pope says, getting into the driver's seat of the van. "We're watching him. There's a difference."
    I get in the other side. "You really think he'll find the guy?"
    Pope sighs as he backs out of the lot. "I think if there's traffic cam footage, he'll check it. I think if one of those Miller trucks was around, it'll show up."
    I nod slowly. "Yeah, but I still think we should be digging on our own. We need more—a name, a face, anything to connect that guy to the company."
     My phone rings. Kiara. I almost don't answer.
    Still, I swipe. "Hey, baby."
    There's a bit of shuffling on her end, then— "Hi!"
    Her cheeriness throws me off. "Hi...? Everything okay?"
    "Mhm," she hums. "We just finished lunch, but Wheezie had to run to the bathroom, so I figured I'd call you while she's gone."
    "She seem alright?" I ask, flashes from the other night playing in the back of my mind.
    "I think so," Kiara says. "And if she's not, she's doing a damn good job pretending. Either way, I'm just glad I got her out of Sarah's orbit for the day."
    "Yeah... she's been going through it lately, huh?"
    "Really rough," she says, quieter now. "But I think she's actually having a chill day. Which was the goal."
    I glance at the time glowing on the dash. "Alright. Well, Pope and I just left Shoupe's office, and we're heading to the shop now to help out."
    She hums again, and I can practically hear the smirk on her face. "And by 'help out,' you mean sit around, drink a beer, and snoop through shady records?"
    Pope must hear her through the speaker, because he scoffs without even looking up.
    "Maybe," I admit, dragging the word out. "But whatever it is, it's still not gonna beat coming home to you, wifey."
    "Shut your kiss-ass up," she says, laughing. "And don't get too excited—I'm sleeping with Wheezie tonight. You're on your own."
    "What?!" I blurt, but she's already cutting me off.
    "Girls' day isn't over. Love you, honey. Bye-bye!"
    Click. Beep.
    I fidget with my phone, tossing it between hands when I stop and say, "Pope, remember where you started doing research? When you found my dad's name?"
    "Yeah; it was just some random sketchy database. Honestly, I'm not sure how my laptop didn't get a virus."
    "There's gotta be more stuff on there, right? More names or something?"
    "Probably so. We just have to look."
    So that's what we do. We're at the shop in no more than five minutes, and we're on a mission. There are at least ten people in the shop, checking out boards, ordering lunch, shopping for suits.
    "Hey, come give me a hand!" John B. calls when we walk in the door, but there's no time for helping.
    "Sorry bird," I call back. "No can do!" Then I'm halfway up the stairs to the loft.
    Cleo kisses Pope, but her initial sweetness is misleading. "How you guys just gonna come waltz in here during a rush and decide not to help?!"
    I can tell she scares Pope because he stammers. "Oh—uh—I'm sorry—"
    She hits him upside the head as he walks to follow me. "Ouch!" he mutters.
Pope's pulling his laptop out immediately, fingers nimble and precise as he finds the website he was on before.
He has the site up within a minute, typing faster than I've seen him do anything. His eyes scan the screen like he's solving some ancient code, and I hang over his shoulder like a pest, impatient and wired.
"Anything?" I ask.
"Not yet. Gimme a second."
It's all encrypted crap and usernames that look like they belong to bots, but Pope knows how to find patterns. He always has.
Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Still, nothing. No car descriptions, no messages, nothing to help Wheezie's case.
"Damn it," I mutter, rubbing my face. "It's a dead end?"
"I don't know," Pope says. "I don't even know what I'm looking for." He scrolls again, eyes narrowing. "Wait."
He clicks into a subfolder titled Off-Market Transfers. Inside are a bunch of property PDFs—deeds, inspections, even emails. He opens one.
"Shit," he whispers.
I lean in. "What?"
"Look at these messages."
    My eyes scan the screen, trying to make sense of anything, but I'm lost. "What is this?"
    "It's nothing to do with Wheezie, but look—that's your dad's name. He was talking to Miller a few weeks before he died."
Sure enough, the files show a back-and-forth between Miller and someone listed only as "L. Maybank." My dad.
The messages read: