Book Spotlight | The Body In The Reef by C. Fitton

Today, the spotlight is on The Body In The Reef by C. Fitton!

Described as “a nail-biting trouble at sea thriller” and “claustrophobic and tense”, this book promises to be a twisty ride where danger lurks and no one can be trusted.

To give you a taste, I’m sharing the synopsis and excerpt from the book. Thank you to the author for this exclusive excerpt.

Pages: 344
Publication Date: 30 August 2025
Author: C. Fitton
Publisher: Kingsley Publishers

SYNOPSIS

Four people go out on a boat, but only three come back. Was it a tragic accident or something more sinister?

Scott Wilson plans a romantic anniversary get-a-way with his wife aboard his sportfishing yacht off the Key West coast. When his in-laws invite themselves along for the weekend, Scott figures, “The more, the merrier.”

On the day of the trip, the sky is clear and the sea is calm. Out on the water, the fish are biting. The drinks are flowing, and spirits are soaring.

But when night falls, a thunderstorm hits and the tide turns. Dangerous secrets lurk just below the surface and when day breaks, someone has gone missing.

EXCERPT

Rebecca Wilson

It was Saturday morning, and the boating weekend was upon us. I pulled on my tortoiseshell glasses and checked the forecast on my phone— perfect weather, just as I’d hoped. The trip was on. I watched as he pulled on a pair of faded jeans, a white T-shirt clinging to his frame, brown leather topsiders that had seen many adventures, and a well-worn ball cap that shaded his eyes. I gathered my hair into a tight French braid, feeling the familiar tug of the elastic hold it in place, then reached for lipstick and sunblock, the scent of coconut rising into the air.

“You look very nautical,” Scott said, a playful wink dancing across his face as he took in my outfit of white capris and a loose white cotton blouse paired with flat sandals. His watery blue eyes sparkled, a deep hue reminiscent of the ocean. Those eyes always stirred something inside me.

We climbed into his black pickup truck, the engine rumbling to life as we navigated through the quiet downtown streets, shadows lingering in the early light. There was no conch train teeming with tourists, no drunken pub crawlers spilling onto Duval Street. All was still at the Hemingway Home, save for an eerie yowl from its colony of six-toed cats slinking through the bushes. The morning air was crisp, invigorating—my senses tingled.

Usually, at this hour, I was navigating the busy streets on my way to my law office, coffee in hand, briefcase swinging at my side. But today felt different. Six months ago, Scott inherited the forty-five-foot sportfishing yacht and wet slip from his uncle, who called Key West his home. Since then, I’d only been out on the boat a couple of times because I was so busy with work. I remembered the first time I’d stepped aboard, the sun- dappled deck inviting me to leave my worries behind. But lately, my time out on the water had been scarce, work consuming every ounce of my energy. Excitement bubbled in my stomach, a mixture of anticipation and freedom. Yet, as the reality of our mounting bills surfaced in my mind, the weight of them pressed down on me like an anchor, dragging the joy just out of reach.

Inheriting the boat had been a real shock for Scott. His uncle had impulsively picked it up after going through a terrible divorce, trading a sports car for a sportfishing yacht. Without children to inherit it, Scott found himself the unexpected owner after his uncle suddenly passed away from a heart attack.

Initially, Scott had considered selling it – practicality tugged at him – but sentimentality soon took over.

“My uncle didn’t have any kids,” he would reminisce, a faraway look in his eyes. “He used to take me out on his boat when I visited him in the summer. He once told me he saw me like a son.”

The unexpected loss made him realize he wanted to seize the moment, transforming it into an opportunity and a challenge.

As he began to work on the boat, it quickly morphed into an obsession. I often joked it was his ‘other woman’. At thirty-three, Scott’s mid-life crisis had arrived a decade ahead of his uncle’s. Truthfully, I was glad he had a hobby to occupy his time, since he was always complaining that I worked such long hours.

But the renovations began to demand more than he had anticipated. This was beyond just repairs and new equipment. The costs piled up: marina fees, insurance, and dry rack storage during hurricane season, each item weighing heavy on our finances. Sometimes, I wondered if he should’ve sold it after all. The financial strain was tough on our marriage. Scott had been at the marina so much lately that his carpentry business had taken a hit. I felt the burden of being the main breadwinner pressing down on me, a constant reminder of the delicate balance we were struggling to maintain. Luckily, the boat’s exterior was decent, but the interior was tired and dated. I wouldn’t have had the patience to fix it up myself, yet Scott thrived on the opportunity to tinker or fish out on the water. I had never been a fan of fishing—even less so of the waiting.

He invested so much time and money, yet received little reward. It was his passion, so I tried to feign enthusiasm. But if he sank much more money into that boat, we’d be looking at a second mortgage. If only Scott was as good with money as he was with his hands. But it was our five- year anniversary, so I’d have to try and push the financial worries to the back of my mind.

The Key West Marina was a short drive from our house. It was located next to the Coast Guard station, on the northwest side of the island, where a bend in the shoreline created a naturally protected harbor. Scott maneuvered the truck into a corner spot, the engine rumbling to a stop. Just before sunrise, a hush blanketed the marina, a time Scott and his new buddies liked to call zero-dark-hundred. A rooster crowed off in the distance. Then silence settled between us, we gazed out at the calm sea, lost in our thoughts.

Suddenly, a loud bang shattered the quiet. I shrieked, my heart racing as I jumped in my seat. We glanced at the cracked windshield, aghast. A coconut had plummeted from a palm tree, its shell cracking open with an explosive thud, splattering its flesh and milk across the glass. A series of hairline fractures radiated out from the point of impact.

“I thought the marina staff were supposed to keep the trees free of coconuts!” I exclaimed, my voice shaking with shock and anger. Now we’d have to shell out for a new windshield.

Scott banged his hands against the steering wheel in a rare display of anger. I knew he was upset; he loved his truck almost as much as he loved his boat. He jumped out, grabbed a rag from the bed of his truck, and wiped the mess off the window.

“I’ll hose it down later,” he said, opening my door. “Let’s focus on the fishing trip. It’s our anniversary, and I’m not going to let anything ruin it—not even a cracked windshield.”

I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen…

Cover photo by nikldn