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 nodded. He was tempted to make a joke that living in the city wasn’t a crime the last time he’d checked. But he kept his mouth shut. Poole was uncomfortable, and that was making Bray doubly so.
“And you drove straight to Ravesville from the St. Louis airport?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do once you got to town?”
“I went to the church on the corner of Main and Portland. My brother is getting married there this weekend.”
“And you had some conversation with Gary Blake?”
“Conversation? Is that what he called it?” Bray asked. He was disgusted. The guy tried to rough up his ex-wife and then whined to his boss because Bray had got the better of him.
“I didn’t speak with Gary. Julie Wentworth is my sister-in-law. She plays the piano every Sunday and for almost every wedding in town.”
Piano player Julie and Reverend Brown had not witnessed his physical interaction with Blake. They would only be able to report on what they’d overheard.
Not true. They would be able to support that Summer had been upset—to the point that her voice had been shaking.
“I understand you and Summer Wright were an item in high school. That was before my time in Ravesville. Is that correct?”
An item? “We dated,” he said. If Poole wanted to know more than that, he was going to have to ask somebody else.
“Uh-huh. So, after you left the church, where did you go?” Poole asked.
Bray made sure his face showed no reaction. But his brain, which might have been idle in the kitchen, was now working itself back to fighting weight. “I went to Summer’s house.”
“Why?”
