Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“Prentice’s murder has cost me a lot of money,” my father said. “Being mayor doesn’t exactly pay the bills.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping around their elegant dining room furnished with antiques.
I thought of the two luxury cars parked in the garage, the vacations he took my mother on, and the fur coat hanging in her closet. Being mayor of a small town in North Carolina didn’t pay enough for all of that. My father had always been good at turning connections and opportunities into cash in the bank. But with Griffen in the way…
My cop’s brain couldn’t help following that thought to its most obvious conclusion. Someone had sent a killer after Griffen, not once, but multiple times. It was nearly impossible to believe that my own father could be responsible. On top of that, we’d assumed that the person after Griffen and the other Sawyers was the same as the person who’d killed Prentice. That made the most sense.
I was damn sure my father hadn’t killed Prentice Sawyer, if for no other reason than sheer greed. Everything was better for my father with Prentice alive to lend him the power and the connections to make profitable investments. And getting rid of Griffen didn’t necessarily solve his problem. With Griffen gone, he’d still have to deal with Hope and Royal, neither of whom would be interested in bending their ethical standards.
As I worked my way through the logic of it, I felt a weight lift from my chest. Yes, Griffen was in my father’s way, but my father was still better off with him alive. The risk/reward matrix wasn’t enough for my father to consider murder a solution to his problems.
My mother returned with generous slices of cake and launched into a story about a woman at church who’d been badgering her for the recipe for her award-winning coconut cake. My mother was an amazing cook, and she did not share her recipes. Ever. Everyone knew that, but the woman at church had apparently decided she was special. My father and I laughed at the right moments in the story, and as soon as she was done, I escaped with a hug, a kiss, and a full stomach. My father’s pensive glare followed me out the door.
I rolled my shoulders as I walked, trying to leave behind the weight of his disapproval. I knew I was a disappointment. In my younger years, that had burned some, but most of the time, I thought I’d grown past needing anything from him. I loved my job. I loved this town.
I took a minute to notice the papier-mâché skeletons decorating the window of the town drugstore. My father was wrong. The changes caused by Prentice’s death were good. He’d adjust. Eventually.
My feet took me past the police station, and I felt a vague wash of surprise that I hadn’t turned into the parking lot to get my vehicle. I didn’t want to go home. Not yet. I wanted to move, to walk.
And—I realized as my feet took me through town and out the other side—what I really wanted was a cold beer.
Chapter Eight
WEST
Ipushed open the door of Sawyers Bend Brewing and let the warm air and golden light surround me. Conversation was lively but not boisterous. Small groups clustered around high-top tables; a few people sitting at the bar. Avery stood behind the long expanse of wood, pulling a beer from the tap and smiling at a customer as she listened to whatever he was saying.
I was hit by an odd wave of pleasure at seeing the smile on her face, at seeing her at all. Before I could wonder where that had come from or why, it occurred to me that Avery was rarely here in the evenings. Usually, if she was behind the bar at all, she handled days. Cammie or Dave usually handled evenings.
I shouldn’t have expected to see Avery here, and I wasn’t sure why I was so glad that she was. She slid the beer to her customer, and her eyes lifted, meeting mine. Her smile spread wider, her gaze pulling me to the bar like a tractor beam, and I decided I didn’t really care why I was so glad to see her. I was just glad I was here.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“White Water IPA.”
“Good choice,” she said, grabbing a pint glass. “Late night at work?” she asked.
“Dinner with my parents,” I answered.
Avery slid me my beer and let out a short sigh, her eyes leaving mine only to scan the bar and make sure no one needed anything. “That sounds like fun.” Her dry tone told me she knew dinner had been anything but fun. “How’s your mom?” she asked with genuine warmth in her voice.
“Mom’s good. I see she talked you into some papier-mâché skeletons in the window.”