1
WILL
The last time I saw Gemma Holloway, she was standing beside me at Sarah's grave.
That was five years ago. She'd flown in from Seattle, stayed two days, and left before I could form words beyond the basic mechanics of grief. I remember her hand on my arm at the reception, her voice saying something I couldn't process, something in her eyes was dimmer than it had been before she left Anchor Bay.
I should have paid more attention. Should have asked why she seemed so diminished, why her new boyfriend hadn't come with her, why she flinched when her phone buzzed in her purse. But Sarah had just died, and I couldn't see past my own pain to notice someone else's.
Now Gemma's standing in my doorway again, and those shadows have consumed her entirely.
Tuesday nights at the Ironside Bar are slow enough that I handle inventory myself. The rhythm of counting bottles and checking stock keeps my hands busy, and busy hands mean a quiet mind. Or quiet enough. The alternative is going home to a house that still feels too empty, so I'll take boxes of napkins and a clipboard over silence any day.
The bar is almost deserted tonight. A few regulars nurse beers at the far end, watching a Mariners game on the mounted TV. Old Dave tells the same story about his fishing boat that he tells every week. No one's really listening, but no one minds either. That's the kind of place the Ironside is.
The Brotherhood bought this building eight years ago when we were still figuring out what we wanted to be. Cole found it. Said it had good bones and better parking, and that was enough for me. We gutted it, rebuilt it, turned it into something that feels like a cross between a neighborhood bar and a living room. Exposed brick, reclaimed wood, pool tables that have seen better days but still play true. Nothing fancy. Nothing that tries too hard.
I'm in the back storage room when I hear the front door open. The hinges creak in a specific way that tells me someone's pushing through slow and uncertain, not the confident swing of a regular. I set down my clipboard and head toward the main room.
The woman standing just inside the entrance has her hand still on the door like she's not sure she wants to let go. The overhead lights catch the angles of her face, and recognition hits me like a fist to the chest.
She's thin. Too thin. Her dark hair is cropped short where it used to fall past her shoulders, and the style should look edgy and intentional but instead looks like someone cut it in a hurry without caring how it turned out. She's wearing jeans and a sweater that both hang loose on her frame, and her eyes scan the room with the kind of wariness that makes me slow my approach without thinking about it.
"Gemma?"
Her gaze snaps to me, and fear flashes across her features before she controls it. That fear bothers me more than anythingelse. Gemma has never been afraid of anything in her life. Certainly never afraid of me.
"Will." Her voice is rougher than I remember, like she's been crying or screaming or both. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."
"Where else would I be?" I keep my tone easy, casual, even as my mind races through possibilities I don't like. "Cole's out on a parts run, but he should be back soon. You want me to call him?"
"I..." She hesitates, and her fingers tighten on the strap of the bag over her shoulder. "Yeah. If that's okay. I should have called first, I know. I just started driving and this is where I ended up."
There's a lot packed into those words. I file it away and gesture toward the bar.
"Sit down. Let me get you something."
She doesn't move right away. Her eyes track around the room again, checking exits maybe, or just checking. Whatever she's looking for, she apparently doesn't find it, because some of the tension in her shoulders releases and she finally walks toward me.
I get my first good look at her as she slides onto a barstool, and what I see makes me want to put my fist through a wall. She's exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical. The hollows under her eyes speak of weeks without real sleep, and a guardedness in her posture that wasn't there before. She holds herself like she's expecting a blow.
This is worse than the funeral. At Sarah's service, Gemma looked dimmed. Uncertain. Now she looks hunted.
When I set a glass of water in front of her, she goes still. Her whole body tightens for just a fraction of a second before she forces herself to relax. Just slightly. Just enough that most people wouldn't notice.
I notice. Twenty years of reading body language, first in the Army and then in different work entirely, taught me to catchwhat others miss. That reaction tells me something, and I don't like what it says.
"Thanks." She wraps both hands around the glass but doesn't drink. "The place looks good. You've done some work since I was here last."
Since the funeral. Neither of us says it.
"New sound system. Fixed the draft lines. Nothing major."
I pull out my phone and text Cole:
Your sister's here. Get back now.
"When did you get into town?"
