COLD TIDE

In 1994 Amelia Island, the law isn't always blind—it's wounded, watchful, and remembering. Archie's upcoming legal thriller unfolds in a small coastal town with heat and history, where justice is less a verdict and more a reckoning. Woven with precise period detail and emotional aftermath, the story follows characters fractured by loss, guilt, and loyalty as a high-stakes case peels back layers of buried truths. It’s not just about who’s guilty—it’s about what justice demands of those left standing.

If you're drawn to authentic voices, atmospheric tension, and the quiet devastation that lingers after the gavel falls, this is a novel for you.

Subscribe for a glimpse behind the pages—first reads, unseen threads, and the latest info on planned launch date.

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THE SETTING

Jacksonville, Florida — 1994.

Dan Foster has built a career out of controlling narratives. As co-founder of Foster & Speer, he’s the architect behind corporate turnarounds and crisis campaigns—polished, persuasive, untouchable. But when a reopened murder case dredges up a name from his past, the tide shifts.

Mason Carlisle.

A star athlete. A summer night. A silence that never settled.

The investigation leads back to Amelia Island, a quiet coastal town where the past clings like salt to skin. Beneath its dunes and boardwalks lie fractured loyalties, buried truths, and the kind of secrets that don’t erode—they calcify. As headlines resurface and investigators circle, Dan must navigate a landscape where reputation is currency and memory is liability.

What begins as a ripple becomes a reckoning—one that threatens not just his firm’s future, but the fragile architecture of the life he’s built.

Cold Tide is a haunting legal thriller that explores the fault lines between ambition and accountability, and the quiet pull of a past that refuses to stay buried. Archie’s upcoming novel is set in the blistering grace of coastal Florida, told through the eyes of someone who lived it and was shaped by it.

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A Sneak Peak ....

Chapter 1: The Pitch

Jacksonville, Florida – March 1994

The morning light spilled through the fifteenth-floor windows of Foster & Speer like it had been scheduled in advance. Golden beams slanted across the mahogany conference table, casting halos around water pitchers and pointing directly toward Dan Foster at the head of the room.

Beyond the glass: the St. Johns River's slow shimmer, the steel grid of the Mathews Bridge, the beige monolith of the Independent Life building rising like a sentinel. Jacksonville stretched out below, a city Dan had learned to navigate from above.

Dan stood in his navy suit, sharp against the burnished wood of the table. He adjusted his silver gator cufflinks—graduation gift from his brother Rich, worn only on pitch days. Like armor.

The walls carried faint echoes of downtown life—horns, heels on concrete, the low buzz of street traffic. But up here, everything felt suspended. Curated. Elevated.

Dan's voice was clear and composed, suited for courtrooms or boardrooms. "It's not just the message that matters," he said, stepping smoothly beside the whiteboard as the projection clicked forward. "It's who owns it."

He let that hang for a breath. A subtle shift of posture followed, one foot anchored, the other angled outward. Commanding without overconfidence.

"The first to define the story wins."

Across the table sat three men in corporate grays and blues. Their faces wore polite detachment, but something in their shoulders said they were listening now. The lead executive—a silver-haired VP of Corporate Affairs for East Gulf Energy—leaned forward, his knuckles pressed together like a steeple.

Behind Dan, graphs mapped media sentiment curves, perception modeling, and a rival's transformation of an environmental scandal into a job-creation campaign. No one looked at the slides anymore. They watched Dan.

Michael Speer, his partner and co-founder, lounged halfway down the table. Tortoiseshell glasses, charcoal blazer over a faded Dylan tee, espresso in hand. He looked like he'd wandered in from a film festival, yet his silence wasn't disengagement—it was tactical. Speer knew the tempo. He let Dan run the room.

Dan turned, tone shifting. Clinical became aspirational.

"Right now, your critics own the narrative. You look opaque. Defensive. That's the frame we shift. Coastal renewal initiative. Educational partnerships with marine labs. Your biologists in classrooms. Your engineers in evening news profiles."

The VP leaned back in his chair. "We've tried transparency. It backfired."

"Because you led with apology," Dan said. "You gave them the frame. We're not apologizing—we're recontextualizing. The spill becomes a catalyst for marine research funding. Your cleanup becomes a partnership with universities. We don't deny the damage. We own the recovery."

A younger executive, skeptical until now, spoke up. "That sounds like spin."

"It's positioning," Dan corrected smoothly. "Spin is lying. Positioning is choosing which truth to emphasize. And right now, the truth is that East Gulf employs twelve hundred people in this region, funds coastal research, and responded faster than federal guidelines required. That's not spin. That's context your critics are deliberately omitting."

The skeptical executive's expression shifted. Not quite convinced, but listening.

Click. A mockup ad filled the screen: an East Gulf technician cradling a sea turtle, oil-slicked but alert.

"We don't just issue apologies. We make them visible. Credible."

Silence followed, thick and telling. No one looked at the turtle. All eyes were on Dan.

He felt that silence like a tide beneath him, not pressure, but possibility. Moments like these were why he chased the pitch, rehearsed alone in the dark with the hum of a coffee machine as audience.

Finally, the silver-haired VP broke it. "That's a hell of a pitch."

Dan offered a faint smile. Professional, not smug. "That's what we do."

The third man, quiet until now, spoke. "You've handled this before."

Dan didn't blink. "Crisis or narrative—we specialize in both."

The meeting wrapped like a slow curtain drop, with measured praise, tighter handshakes, and no mention of "circling back." They didn't ask for revisions or decks. They said, simply, "Let's get started."

The door shut with a soft hiss behind them.

Michael Speer stood, stretched, and grinned. "The turtle ad. Brilliant. Almost made me tear up, and I don't even like turtles."

"You don't like turtles?"

"Slow, awkward, probably taste terrible. But that ad?" He kissed his fingers like a chef. "Pure poetry. You just bought us a retainer that covers everyone's bonus this quarter—including Angie's Yorkie's inevitable hip surgery."

Dan loosened his tie slightly, tucking his materials under one arm. "Breaker's hips are fine."

"For now. He's full Yorkie and half neurotic. Degradation is destiny."

Dan checked his watch. Eleven fifty-eight. "I'm meeting Ella for lunch." Michael drained his espresso. "Go bask. You earned it."

In the hallway, fluorescent buzz replaced golden light. Dan felt the shift from pitch-mode to personal terrain—the moment after stepping off stage.

He'd been stepping onto stages his whole life. Barber's kid from Fernandina Beach, putting himself through UF on grit and student loans. No legacy. No Rolodex. Just a double major in PR and Marketing, an MBA, and an absolute refusal to lose. He and Michael had launched the firm in '83 from a corner desk with a borrowed phone line. Eleven years later, Foster & Speer occupied an entire floor downtown.

The corridor smelled of carpet cleaner and ambition. Someone passed wearing citrusy cologne. An espresso machine hissed near the break area. Phones buzzed from cubicles.

This was Dan's world. Controlled. Curated. Ascending.

The lobby was in motion—heels clicking across travertine tile, quiet conversations about zoning proposals and quarterly earnings. Someone flipped through a Jacksonville Business Journal with Speer's name circled in highlighter.

Dan moved toward the elevators, still riding the pitch high, already thinking ahead to lunch with Ella.

Then Angie intercepted him. His assistant's auburn hair was neat as ever, but her usual brightness was gone, replaced by something careful. Worried.

"This came for you." She held out the morning Times-Union like it might bite. "You'll want to see it now. Not at lunch."

Dan raised an eyebrow, still half in pitch mode. "Bad headline?"

She didn't smile. Just held his gaze and nodded once.

He took the paper.

COLD CASE REOPENED IN 1978 BEACH MURDER
Police Renew Investigation into Death of Mason Carlisle

He stopped walking.

Beneath the bold letters: Former Fernandina Beach Star Athlete Dan Foster at Center of '78 Investigation.

Mason Carlisle.

The name hit him like a slap.

A grainy photo, probably pulled from an old yearbook, showed Mason in his football jersey. Helmet in hand. Grinning. The humidity had warped the ink just slightly, curling one edge of the page like a warning.

Angie's voice was cautious. "I didn't know whether to give it to you before or after your meeting."

"This was after."

"I figured it wouldn't help your pitch to be reminded of... that."

Dan stared at the paper. The heat behind his eyes surprised him.

Flash.

Main Beach. Late summer twilight, sand still warm underfoot.

Mason's face inches from his, both of them breathing hard, fists clenched. The crowd forming a rough circle—classmates yelling, someone's car stereo bleeding into the salt air. Nikki screaming for them to stop.

His brother Rich grabbing his arm, pulling him back. "We're leaving. Now."

Mason turning away, heading toward the dunes. Dan's knuckles throbbing as Rich shoved him toward the car.

Later—how much later?—sirens. Blue lights strobing against the dunes. Someone found him. Mason. Lifeless in the sand where the beach grass started.

No one saw what happened. No one said anything that mattered. The memory ran jagged—not a reel, but fragments that never quite connected.

Dan clenched the folder tighter, trying to tuck one into the other: pitch deck and ghost story.

Angie touched his arm. "They called twice. A reporter from the St. Augustine Record wants a statement."

Dan's voice was low. "Tell him I'm unavailable."

"Should I loop in Speer?"

Dan shook his head slowly. "Not yet."

He folded the paper, twice, and slipped it into the folder alongside client pitch materials. A calculated move—fold a ghost into something presentable.

The elevator dinged softly. But he didn't move. Angie watched him for a beat. "Dan…"

"I'm fine," he said, stepping inside. "Tell Ella I'm on my way."

The doors closed. Inside, the mirrored panel caught him. Behind his reflection, the faint outline of Jacksonville's skyline bled into the glass, like ambition and memory overlapping without permission.

And something cracked. Not a breakdown, just a hairline fracture in the image. He had built a career turning chaos into order. Affairs, bribery, backdated ledgers, smudged NDAs—he'd spun all of it into strategy.

But this wasn't someone else's scandal.

This time, the story was his.


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Chapter 6: Coastal Reckoning
Amelia Island – Late Afternoon

Dan hadn't driven east on Atlantic Avenue in years, but the corners still greeted him like old acquaintances. The island seemed to remember him—its bends and branches stored in muscle memory. Azaleas flared magenta along the medians. Spanish moss hung from the live oaks in heavy curtains. At the city docks, shrimp boats rocked in the gold light, nets slack and swaying.

Amelia Island had always been a place that kept secrets. Thirteen miles of sand and salt marsh that had flown eight different flags—Spanish, French, British, even a brief pirate republic. The Timucua were here first. Then came waves of colonizers who renamed it, carved it up, left their mark. By the time Dan came along, it had settled into something else: Victorian bones wrapped in beach-town ease, shrimp boats at the harbor, and underneath it all, the kind of silence that accumulates when nobody wants to ask the wrong questions.

Fernandina Beach still clung to its past—wraparound porches, the old saloon with bullet holes in the bar mirror. But the island had always been good at burying things. Pirates. Union troops. Bootleggers. And now, maybe, the truth about what happened to Mason Carlisle.

Dan guided his Corvette onto Ocean Avenue—known locally as "Reefer Road"—sand and gravel crackling beneath the tires. To his right, the Atlantic stretched steel blue and restless. On the left, beach houses leaned against weather and time, most surrendering to salt.

Memory rewrote the scene: silhouettes dancing in firelight, Mason's voice like a blade, Nikki's eyes wide and startled. His knuckles tingled with the echo.

He looped back and pulled into the Main Beach lot. Engine ticking. Children on the swing set. A couple walking their beagle. The Putt-Putt course in full swing. Someone grilling hot dogs, radio playing Journey.

It felt wrong—too cheerful, too casual. The bones of a tragedy paved over with playground mulch and concession stands.

Dan got out slowly.

The wind met him—salty and warm. The lifeguard stand was freshly painted cherry red, but its shape was the same.

He'd sat in that chair the summer of '77. Made two rescues that became local legend. A surfer with a board to the skull. A ten-year-old boy caught in a rip current. He'd saved two lives from this beach.

A year later, he'd be questioned about taking one.

He stared at the stand the way people stare at headstones.

He didn't linger.

Past Main Beach, the old Family Tree restaurant sagged beneath chipped paint, corners swallowed by overgrowth. Egan's Creek murmured beneath Atlantic Avenue. The Little League Park showed rusted bleachers, bent fences.

Fernandina had changed in small ways—angle, posture, the feeling you got when familiar places looked just slightly wrong.

He found Rich at Blue-Ray's—still a gas station in name, though only the diner part functioned. Rusted pumps outside, faded signage. Inside: fried shrimp, cracked vinyl booths, thick coffee.

Rich was in the corner, cap low, the Fernandina Beach News-Leader folded like armor.

"You look like hell," he said.

Dan slid into the booth. "Good to see you too."

"I figured if I didn't insult you first, you'd get sentimental."

The place hadn't changed. Red tile underfoot, locals at the counter, walls cluttered with football memorabilia—signed photos, faded jerseys, cracked helmets. Decades of décor layered into its own history.

Hush puppies arrived without prompting. Ritual.

"You remember that night?" Dan asked.

Rich didn't blink. "All of it."

"I remember the fight. Mason bleeding. Nikki screaming. You pulling me off the beach, trying not to dissolve."

Rich's mouth twitched. "You bled all over Dad's front seat. Leather doesn't forgive. Took weeks of peroxide and denial."

"You parked near the lifeguard stand. Tall Budweiser in hand. Shouting at the moon like it owed you rent."

Rich's tone softened. "You weren't angry. You looked hollow."

Dan stared into his coffee. "You ever wonder what really happened?"

Rich studied him. "I think you, and everyone else, stopped wanting to know."

Silence deepened.

Rich leaned forward. "You ever think about it from anyone else's angle? Nikki. Mason's family. Beau Underwood."

Dan blinked. "Nikki's dad?"

Rich's mouth tightened. "Come on, you know the talk. Everybody around here's heard it. Shrimp boats weren't just hauling shrimp back then. The seventies hit hard—fuel costs, low catches. Some captains padded the difference with bales tucked under ice. Word was, Beau had his fingers close to that pie. Not running loads himself maybe, but close enough that people wondered who was really steering the wheel."

Dan paused. He knew the stories—whispers at the docks, side comments in bars. The kind of rumors that settled into local folklore until no one knew what was true anymore.

Rich leaned forward. "Mason didn't just hear things—he lived them. You remember he worked as a deckhand on his uncle's shrimp boat?"

Dan nodded slowly. He'd forgotten that detail, or maybe buried it.

"Spring and summer of '77?"

"Through '78. That puts him square in the water when the Gilberto went down."

Dan's stomach tightened. "The north beach inferno?"

Rich nodded. "Shrimp boat with local registration but a Colombian crew. Loaded with 25 tons of high-grade weed. Mason's uncle's boat was trawling those same waters when it happened. Close enough to see things. Hear things. The kind of curiosity that doesn't go unnoticed."

The air seemed to tighten between them. Dan had always known Mason had brushed too close to trouble—fights, drinking, pushing boundaries the way teenage athletes did. But hearing it laid out this way—the shrimp fleet, Beau's shadow, Mason working the boats during the Gilberto bust—made the arc of the story suddenly sharper.

Trouble was one thing. Danger was something else entirely.

Dan felt the weight—less guilt than erosion. Doubt like water damage.

"Truth wasn't buried," Rich said. "It was ignored. Dig now, you'll find bones no one labeled."

The waitress dropped the check. Rich tapped the table. "You're not the only ghost still walking this island."

He stood, dropped a few bills on the table. "You're kicking a nest. Ready for it to bite back?"

Dan stood without answering.

He scanned the room—faces half-lit in the amber glow, heads bowed over cheeseburgers and drinks, no one watching too closely. He pulled his cap lower, like it might shield him from what was coming.

Outside, dusk bled across the blacktop. Fernandina softened in the heat—light low, humidity rising.

Dan eased into the Corvette and turned onto 8th Street.

Back toward the sand. Back toward whatever waited.

The tide was rising.

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Amelia Island – Early Evening

The Seahorse Inn clung to the far edge of South Fletcher Avenue like something half-disappeared. The kind of place no one recommended, but everyone remembered. Its neon sign buzzed weakly in the coastal dusk—two broken letters left it reading: SEAHOR INN.

Dan parked near the tipped-over dumpster. A seagull with a crooked wing pecked at garbage, then gave up. The lot was webbed with cracks, grass curling from the seams. Every door on the second floor was faded pink. One hung open just enough to suggest either neglect or invitation.

He sat in the Corvette for a moment, windows up, watching the motel. He'd never been here before, but something about it felt familiar in a way he couldn't name.

Inside, the front office smelled like salt, old carpet, and motor oil. A box fan rattled on a shelf behind the counter. Two mismatched lamps threw uneven light. The TV in the corner played a muted game show—contestants gesturing and grinning without sound.

Behind the counter sat a man in a folding chair, feet propped on a milk crate. Gator cap faded to near-camouflage. T-shirt reading: SHRIMP AND GRITS FEST, JEKYLL ISLAND. His mustache was thick and gray, curled at the ends like an old-time bartender.

"Mr. Rayburn?" Dan asked.

The man looked up. "Depends. You trying to sell me something, serve papers, or confess?"

Dan stepped forward. "None of the above. Just looking to ask a few questions."

Marvin "Skillet" Rayburn was an ex-councilman, retired motel manager, unofficial keeper of Amelia's shadow stories. His glasses were smudged, his manner unhurried.

"You're that crisis fella," he said. "From the paper. Foster. Accused of something nasty years back."

Dan nodded. "Allegedly."

Skillet sniffed. "I've let worse stay in Room 7."

Dan leaned on the counter. "Heard you saw something the night Mason Carlisle died."

Skillet adjusted his leg. "I saw a lot of things. Some I kept. Most I let rot." He tilted his head. "But yeah. I remember."

Dan waited.

"That night, a young man showed up. Barefoot. Soaked like he swam here. Bleeding from one hand. Eyes wide. Not scared—just cracked."

"Did he check in?"

Skillet shook his head. "Just wandered in, dripping wet. Left puddles all over the linoleum. Wrapped his hand in one of my bar towels, then parked himself on the floor by the cigarette machine and passed out."

Dan frowned. "Did he give you a name?"

"Not then. But when he woke up around 3 AM, he asked for a room. Said he needed to clean up. Gave a name—Tommy Rivers. Paid cash. I gave him Room 12."

Dan leaned in. "Did he say anything?"

Skillet paused, eyes drifting like he had to scroll through film reels. "Muttered for hours. Whispered like his voice wasn't meant to surface. One phrase kept repeating: He shouldn't've gone back. I told him not to go back. Over and over. Said it like a curse."

Dan felt his chest tighten.

"No car. No keys. Clothes torn like he'd fought vines or ghosts. Left before sunup. Headed north."

"Was he followed?"

Skillet tapped the counter. "He kept checking his watch. Not for time. Like it was counting something down."

Dan absorbed it slowly. "Did you report him?"

"County detective stopped by three days later. Took the check-in form. Asked nothing. Next day, the fire marshal said I was missing a sprinkler inspection. Two days after that, the health board said I had 'trace droppings' under the soda machine."

Dan raised an eyebrow. "Coincidence?"

"Coincidence walks funny around here," Skillet said.

He shuffled to a metal cabinet and opened a drawer labeled LOST GUESTS. Inside: water-stained forms, faded receipts, a broken flashlight.

"Here's the thing," Skillet said, pulling out a wrinkled slip. "Before he left that morning, I made him sign something. For my records. In case anything came back on me."

He handed the slip to Dan.

June 30, 1978. Room 12. Tommy Rivers. Paid cash. Notes say: Bandaged hand. Refused maid service.

In pencil, near the bottom, Skillet had scribbled: Fake name? Address traced to shuttered dry cleaner off Centre St.

Dan ran his thumb along the edges. "May I keep this?"

"You can take the drawer if it helps," Skillet said. "But I'll tell you something else. That boy? He had a tattoo. Small thing, right here—" Skillet tapped his inner wrist. "Looked like a compass rose. Or maybe a ship's wheel. I only noticed because when he was wrapping his hand, his sleeve rode up."

Dan's pulse quickened. "You tell the detective that?"

Skillet shrugged. "Never asked."

He leaned back in his chair. "But remember, truth ain't free. Sometimes it costs sleep."

Dan extended his hand. Skillet shook it. Firm. Dry. Final.

Back outside, the dusk had deepened. The motel looked dimmer. The neon flickered—SEAHOR INN—then dulled again.

Dan climbed into the Corvette and stared at the check-in slip. Tommy Rivers. Whoever he was, he'd seen something. And whoever he became, he might be the crack in the story everyone sealed too fast.

He drove north, the slip sitting on the passenger seat like evidence he wasn't supposed to find.

In his rearview mirror, headlights appeared. Followed for three blocks. Then disappeared down a side street.

Dan's hands tightened on the wheel.

Someone was watching.