BRAY TEXTED CAL, telling him that he wouldn’t be there for dinner. It was the chicken’s way out, he knew, but he simply wasn’t up to the questions that either would be asked or, if everyone decided to give him a pass, would be hanging in the air, hovering, threatening to smother them all.
So, what was it like, seeing Summer after all these years?
Jarring. Exhilarating. Disappointing. Painful. His emotions were all over the place.
She was still beautiful. He’d always loved her red hair. In high school, she’d worn it longer, but now it just touched her shoulders. Her skin was still lovely, freckle-free unlike most redheads. There were a few lines by her pale green eyes that hadn’t been there fifteen years ago, but still, she looked more like twenty-seven than thirty-seven.
Her children were the undisputable proof that the years had truly gone by. Adie was a doll, with her strawberry blonde hair and her big blue eyes. And Keagan, well, he supposed he’d be a good-looking kid if he bothered to get rid of the disdain that poured off his skinny adolescent frame.
Bray appreciated that the kid had hoofed it into the kitchen quickly upon hearing that his mother had brought home a man. That told him something. It didn’t happen often. Not that that mattered. Summer hadn’t said it, but the message had been clear. We’re done. Been done for a long time.
When he’d first heard that Chase and Raney intended to get married in Ravesville, he’d fleetingly wondered if he might run into Summer while he was home. He hadn’t dwelled on the possibility, had merely considered it, decided that it would be no big deal and moved on.
All that proved was that at age thirty-seven, he was living in denial, maybe not all that different from a kid hooked on meth who said he could stop anytime he wanted.
He drove through Ravesville, making a full stop at the end of every block. The same irritating four-way stop signs had been there when he’d been seventeen. Then, he’d done a casual rolling stop, too cool in his old Cutlass convertible to be bothered by rules. And more often than not, Summer had been at his side, her pretty red hair blowing in the wind.
He turned right at the edge of town. Just like old times. On most warm nights, of which there were a lot in Missouri, he and Summer had gone to Rock Pond, the local swimming hole.
They never did a whole lot of swimming there. Instead, he’d pull the old sheet out of his trunk, spread it on the ground, and in the dark of night, he’d make love to Summer.
And afterward, she would cling to him, her sweet young body so firm, yet so soft, and tell him that she loved him and that she would always be his.
As he drove onto the property, he could see that they were still actively working parts of the old quarry, still blasting away. He went around the bend in the narrow road, got close to the section that had been filled with water for many years and killed his lights. It was not a warm night. Not much chance of encountering naked teens doing grown-up things. With little care for the cold, he got out of the car, boosted himself up onto the hood and leaned back against the windshield. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the sky.
He’d been a half a world away, trying not to get blown up, and the memories of this place, his time with Summer here, had kept him sane.
Everything happened for a reason. That was the mantra that his mother had lived by. Even when her husband had died too young, leaving her with three adolescent boys to raise, she’d said those words. Even when she married Brick Doogan, who hadn’t an ounce of the character that his dad had.
He’d survived four years in the military when others hadn’t. He’d clawed his way back after learning that the girl he’d left behind had married someone else, and he eventually got a college degree on Uncle Sam’s dime and a job in New York. Others had come back too screwed up to do the same. He managed to keep a whole lot of drugs off the streets and a bunch of unknown kids alive without getting a knife in his gut when others bought it. He’d built a very satisfactory life and pushed the old memories to the back of the virtual closet, where they belonged.
But now they were clawing to get out, ripping apart his gut, making him want to howl at the quarter moon.
He slid off the hood, got in and turned his car around. When he got to the end of the long lane, he turned right instead of left. He still wasn’t quite ready to go home. He drove through town. At the edge, he turned around. Drove down the main street again. Killing time.
Not true. He was looking for Gary Blake. He might as well admit the truth.
Somebody needed to teach him a lesson, and right now, it would feel damn good to put his fist through something. It might as well be Blake’s face.
He pulled over and used his smartphone to find Blake’s address. He recognized the street. As he drove the six blocks, he knew he was probably about to do something really stupid.
But sometimes a man just had to do what he needed to do.
Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.
Bray was nursing his third cup of coffee when he heard the sound of a car pulling into the Hollister driveway. Chase and Cal were at the sink, washing and drying, because Raney and Nalana had cooked breakfast. He, as the honored guest, was getting to sit.
Which was helpful since he was fighting a headache that was likely a combination of jet lag, long-term fatigue and one too many beers. He’d come home around midnight. The house had been dark, but it had been easy enough to find his way upstairs, avoiding the step that squeaked and finally getting into the brand-new bed that was the centerpiece of his newly decorated bedroom.
Raney and Chase were making a home of the old place. It was unexpected, sort of like the new camaraderie between Chase and Cal. He was going to ask about that. Sometime. Just not now, when the brain cells weren’t yet all firing.
He heard the sound of a door opening and shutting. “Expecting someone?” he asked.
Chase looked at Raney and she shook her head. Cal walked down the hallway to look out the front door.
“It’s Poole,” he said.
“Who’s Poole?” Bray asked.
Cal walked back into the kitchen, exchanged a quick look with Chase and said, “The police chief. Anything we need to know about last night?”
Bray shook his head. “Why look at me?”
Nalana smiled. “Because the rest of us were in bed by nine o’clock.”
Bray returned the smile. “That’s because my brothers are both lucky sons of...guns.” He pushed back his chair. “I might as well get this.”
He waited for the knock. Counted to five, then opened the door. On the other side was a man, probably midsixties, his belly hanging over his belt, looking as if a fast walk, let alone a real chase after an enemy, would take him down.
“Bray Hollister?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m police chief Poole. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He heard a rustle in the kitchen and knew that if he gave any indication that he was uncomfortable with the request, his brothers were going to figure out a way to get Poole off their porch.
“Sure,” he said. “Come on in.”
He led the chief into the living room and motioned for him to have a seat. The man sat in the armchair, making the cushions sink. Bray sat on the couch and relaxed back against a pillow.
“I understand you arrived in town yesterday.”
“That’s correct.”
“From New York.” The man practically wrinkled his nose.
Bray