May nodded, her eyes glimmering with genuine sadness. “Yeah. The doctor noted that Hank probably hadn’t been feeling well for a while but didn’t seek medical intervention until it was too late. And then…well, he refused to spend his last month of life in a hospital.” She paused. “The doctor prescribed pain meds that hopefully eased his suffering.”
“Did the Osprey brothers know?”
May shrugged, her expression unreadable. “That isn’t mentioned in the notes. However, from what I’ve heard about Hank just in my time here, I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept the diagnosis from them.” Her intelligent gaze locked onto Ophelia’s. “A fact I’d be more than happy to testify about if it ever came to that.”
Ophelia’s mind spun as she processed the revelation. She felt for the Osprey brothers—especially Brock. “Understood,” she murmured. After a beat, she asked, “But…in a trial, you’d also be asked whether Hank’s death could’ve been considered a mercy killing. The four men who loved him would’ve wanted to ease his suffering, wouldn’t they?”
May pressed her lips together and glanced away, unwilling to respond.
“That’s what I thought,” Ophelia said, the weight of the unspoken confirmation pressing down on her.
Mercy or not, it still counted as murder.
And someone would have to answer for it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Brock’s stomach rumbled as he parked his rig outside Sam’s. The bar offered clam chowder today, and his hunger gnawed at him. The temptation to text Ophelia and invite her to meet him almost had him reaching for his phone. Yet the stubborn woman had headed off on her own to talk to Doc and flat-out refused to let him accompany her. Yeah, she was still pissed. He couldn’t blame her.
The warmth of the bar hit him immediately, carrying the familiar scents of fresh bread, seafood, and wood smoke from the fire near the corner. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior, scanning the tables until they landed on a man sitting near the fire, leaning over several muted red file folders.
Brock forgot all about the text as he crossed the room and pulled out a chair.
“Hi, Brock,” Damian said without looking up, his voice as smooth as ever, but with an edge Brock didn’t miss.
“Hi.” Brock gestured toward Amka, who was wiping down the bar with long, purposeful swipes of her cloth, then leaned on the table, folding his arms. “What are you doing here?”
Damian closed the top file folder with a quiet snap and finally looked up, his sharp gaze hooded beneath thick lashes. His faceappeared unreadable, as though it had been carved from stone. “It’s clam chowder day.”
Brock’s lips tugged into a reluctant half-smile as he took in his brother’s appearance. Damian’s tailored gray suit fit like it had been made for him—because it probably had. The crisp white shirt beneath his jacket was starkly clean, unwrinkled, and practically glowing under the dim lighting. His silk tie was a deep emerald green, knotted so precisely that it looked like it had been tied by a machine.
“You’re a little overdressed for clam chowder day.”
Before Damian could respond, Amka arrived with a steaming bowl of soup and a frosty beer, setting them down with practiced ease. She offered Brock a small smile. Her faded jeans hugged her hips, worn in at the knees, and her light flannel shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, showing slender, strong forearms. Strands of dark hair had escaped her ponytail and framed her face. “Here’s your chowder,” she said lightly.
“Thanks.” The delicious smell made his stomach rumble.
“I have a to-go thermos for Christian if you see him. He loves clam chowder day.” She didn’t wait for an answer, gathering the dirty dishes from the next table in one fluid motion before heading back to the bar, her boots thudding softly against the wooden floor.
“That’s interesting. What’s up between them?” Damian pushed the file folders aside as he reached for his beer. The amber liquid shimmered as it sloshed in the glass.
Brock watched Amka for a beat longer before answering. “Nothing. Christian’s a wild animal right now who barely comes into town. She feeds all the wild animals.” He shrugged. “True story. The woman even feeds the squirrels during the summer.”
Damian chuckled, the sound low and brief. “Soft-hearted, huh?”
“Something like that,” Brock muttered.
Damian took a sip from his glass, his brow lifting in a familiar arch. “How’s it going with the Fed?” He leaned back, a lazy grin spreading across his face, the kind of grin that could either charm or infuriate, depending on who was on the receiving end. “You two sleeping together?”
Brock took a long pull from his beer, the cool liquid sliding down his throat and dulling his temper—though not by much. The cold bitterness of the beer felt good, but his irritation simmered beneath the surface. His jaw clenched slightly as he set the glass down with a dull thunk against the wooden table. He studied Damian for a long moment, weighing his words carefully. “The Fed is pissed off at me right now. How’s your ex-wife?”
Damian’s lips twitched as he set his glass down, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Couldn’t tell you. Last I heard, she was running a CIA op somewhere in Taiwan.”
Which meant she probably wasn’t in Taiwan at all. If Damian mentioned it out loud, she was likely halfway across the world in some location too classified to admit.
“Someday,” Brock said, eyeing his brother, searching for cracks in his calm exterior, “I’d like to hear the full story about your Stella.”
“There’s no story,” Damian replied with a nonchalant shrug, though the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed something deeper. He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands in front of him. “You should take the sheriff job, Brock. There’s no reason for you not to. The town needs a sheriff, and you’re the best person for the job.”
