Brock resisted the urge to sigh. The weight of the town’s needs felt heavier than it should’ve. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I’d have to coordinate with the FBI, and I don’t want to do that.”
Damian’s second eyebrow rose this time, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile that was both knowing and infuriating. “Consider that taken care of, then.”
Brock paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. What the hell did that mean?
Irritation pricked along his skin like static electricity, but he pushed it down and dug into his clam chowder. The taste, as always, was phenomenal—rich with fresh clams, potatoes cooked just right, and Amka’s signature seasoning.
But even the best chowder couldn’t mask the tension thickening the air at the table.
“The clam chowder is excellent,” Brock said, watching Damian closely. “But not delicious enough to bring you all the way into town. So…what’s up?”
Damian ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the dark strands falling right back into place as if even his hair knew better than to defy him. “I thought I’d just pop into town and visit my home.”
Amusement tugged at Brock, and he set down his spoon, leaning back slightly. “Christian got to you.”
“Yeah. You could say that.” Damian took in one long pull of beer, his shoulders one long line of tension.
Brock chuckled, shaking his head. “You work in one of the most secure facilities in the world, yet our brother somehow sent you a message? What did he convey?”
“That if I didn’t come into town today, he’d take down the secure facility in a way I wouldn’t appreciate.” Damian’s lips tilted into an unwilling smile, the expression equal parts exasperation and fondness. “While I’m fairly certain my new protective measures would’ve held, it’s clam chowder day, so I figured…why not?”
Brock laughed under his breath. It was such a Christian thing to do—threatening something insane while counting on their sense of obligation to reel him back in.
“Has he made an appearance?”
Damian shook his head. “Nope. I sensed him outside when I came in, but he hasn’t made the move yet.” He tapped the table lightly with two fingers. “Is it just me, or is he getting even more antisocial?”
“I don’t know,” Brock admitted. “He’s always preferred the outdoors, but there’s something else going on with him. Not sure what.” He paused, letting the thought linger before leaning in. “Have you figured out the identity of the victim who wore the EVE jacket?”
Damian’s expression grew serious, the earlier humor fading like a distant echo. “No.” He met Brock’s gaze squarely. “I told your woman the truth. We aren’t missing any employees—or contractors. Not a single one.”
Brock’s eyes narrowed as Amka returned to deliver another frosty beer, clearing Damian’s nearly empty mug. Damian’s gaze followed her as she moved across the room, her ponytail bouncing slightly with each step. “She gets more beautiful every year, doesn’t she?”
Brock grunted, a noncommittal sound, though he didn’t argue.
Damian leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping slightly. “I heard a rumor she got engaged to Jarod Teller.” He rolled his eyes, an exaggerated gesture. “That guy’s been a jackass since day one. What’s going on there?”
Brock lifted a shoulder, keeping his tone neutral. “If I could explain, I would.” His gaze sharpened. “But stop changing the subject. You know more than you’re saying about the dead guy.”
“I know more about most things than I can ever reveal. Treason and all that,” Damian said smoothly, taking a deepdrink from his beer. The knot of his emerald tie stayed perfectly in place, undisturbed despite his movements. “But in this case, I truly have no idea about his identity. There’s no missing employee at EVE. Everyone is accounted for, and we haven’t had any turnover for at least a year.”
Brock stared at his brother for a long moment before asking, “What are you even doing working for EVE, Damian? You wanted out of active duty—or active intelligence, or whatever the hell you’ve been doing for the last few years—but EVE? If you’re there, they’re not just studying the ionosphere.”
Damian finished his soup, wiping his mouth with a napkin in slow, deliberate movements that spoke of control. “The ionosphere is important, Brock. Understanding it is critical to protecting the world’s food supply. What we’re doing is worthy of my time.” His smile sharpened, but his eyes remained shadowed, as though some private thought lingered behind them. “Of course, I’m not the director of the entire facility. Yet.”
“Fair enough,” Brock muttered, tired of the endless game of half-truths. He let the silence stretch between them until it felt almost suffocating, the only sounds in the bar the low murmur of conversation and the soft crackle of the fire. Finally, he dropped the bomb. “Did you kill Hank?”
Damian paused, his beer mug halfway to his mouth, the amber liquid catching the firelight. His gaze snapped to Brock’s face, sharp and unwavering. “No. Did you?”
“No.” Brock searched his brother’s expression and felt absurdly pleased that he couldn’t read it. Damian had always been the most composed of the brothers, his poker face legendary. But Brock knew one thing—Damian wouldn’t lie to him in this situation. Treason? Sure. Murdering Hank? Never.
“Hank was dying,” Brock said quietly, the words tasting bitter as they left his mouth.
“Yes.”
Brock lowered his voice further, almost a whisper. “Anybody who killed him just helped him end the pain the way he wanted.” His throat tightened as the weight of the thought pressed down on his chest. “But who would Hank ask?”
“I’m aware.” Damian set his glass down with a muted clink, his body visibly relaxing as if relieved to finally discuss what had been sitting like a stone between them. “If it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me…who’s your guess? Christian?”
