“Maybe. But Ace has been in a rough place since Hank died. It could be guilt.” Brock’s fingers tightened around his spoon until his knuckles turned white. “Hank died by drowning and being shot. I fucking found him.” If Monica hadn’t been with him, would he have still notified the sheriff? The question might never be answered because he truly didn’t know.
Damian lifted a powerful shoulder beneath his perfectly tailored suit jacket, a movement as calm as if they were discussing the weather. “I would’ve probably turned away after the shot. Out of pain or instinct, maybe both. I read the autopsy report. Hank’s lungs barely had water in them. My guess? He was shot, fell into the river, sucked in one or two breaths, and that was it. In my mind, he died of cancer. Period.”
Brock didn’t ask how Damian had gotten ahold of the autopsy report—he didn’t need to know. “Agreed. Cancer killed Hank.” The diagnosis alone had been a death sentence, one none of them could’ve beaten.
The outside door opened with a loud creak, letting in a gust of icy wind that scattered snowflakes onto the wooden floor.
Damian straightened, his polished demeanor sliding back into place like armor. “Christian’s here. Let’s ask him if he fired that deadly shot.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ophelia caught sight of Christian walking into Sam’s Tavern, so she parked by the curb and jumped out of the Jeep to hustle after him, her boots sliding across the icy ground. The frigid air cut through her coat, but she maintained her balance and entered the warm establishment right after him, noting him stalking toward both Brock and Damian. The rustic interior smelled of cedar and butter, the heat from the fireplace chasing the chill from her bones. Brock’s gaze instantly lifted and met hers.
A shiver wandered through her, sending warmth skittering through her veins. Damn, he was sexy. His broad shoulders stretched the flannel shirt he wore like it had been custom-made for him. Whatever he and Damian discussed looked serious, as both men had nearly identical frowns—the kind that hinted at some long-buried family truth.
She plastered on her best smile and followed Christian. “This is fortuitous.”
Christian didn’t so much as twitch. Instead, he pulled out a chair for her with a deliberate motion, his expression unreadable. Had he known she walked right behind him the entire time? If so, he gave no sign. Nonplussed but slightlyimpressed, she sat across from Brock and waited until Christian had taken the chair next to her, his frame tense yet controlled.
“Glad you came into town, Damian,” Christian said, his voice rough, though not unkind. His dark hair had been tied back at the nape with what looked like a regular rubber band—functional, not stylish.
Damian angled his head toward the empty soup bowl in front of him, looking every bit the polished, big-city professional in his tailored suit and power tie. He stood in stark contrast to his brothers, who filled out their flannels and jeans in a way that could grace any high-end catalog.
“It’s clam chowder day,” Damian said with a shrug, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested more than the simple statement let on.
Amka wiped her hands on a dishtowel and walked toward them. The pretty woman looked harried, her dark hair twisting out of a ponytail, and her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Despite the chaos around her, her red flannel shirt and jeans remained free of the stains that had collected on the towel she held.
“Soup?” she asked, her gaze flicking between Christian and the others.
Christian’s eyes—one black and one green—glanced toward the door and back again, sharp as knives. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease as he tapped the table with his fingers before finally nodding.
“In a to-go container, Christian?” Amka asked, waiting until he nodded to smile at Ophelia. “Olly, if you’re not allergic to clams or seafood, you’ll like it.”
“Sure, and with a soda, please,” Ophelia said, her curiosity piqued by the quiet interplay. She noted the flaring of Christian’s dual-colored eyes, their intensity fixed solely on Amka as if nobody else existed in the room. In any room.
The woman’s flush deepened, and she quickly turned back toward the kitchen, her tennis shoes silent on the polished wood floor.
Damian cleared his throat. “You wanted me in town, C. Here I am.”
Fascinating. How much would they discuss in front of her? Ophelia leaned back. She knew when to stay silent and observe, a skill that had served her well during her time with the Bureau.
Unlike Christian, who seemed intent on ignoring her entirely, Brock’s attention locked onto her like a physical weight. His dark green eyes bore into her, steady and unrelenting.
She reminded herself that she was an armed federal agent—trained, capable, and not easily shaken. Yet the heat that climbed into her cheeks betrayed her composure. She stared back, irritation flaring at her own reaction. “You have something to say?”
Brock’s rumbling voice came low and even. “How did it go with Doc?”
Damian sat back, tossing his paper napkin into his empty soup bowl with a soft thunk. “Do you two need privacy?”
“No,” Ophelia answered quickly.
“Yes,” Brock drawled at the same time, his lips twitching slightly.
Christian snorted, shaking his head.
Damian’s expression remained impassive, but a new tension seemed to roll off him in waves. Whatever undercurrents existed between them, he didn’t like it.
Ophelia felt her cheeks warm even more. Whatwerethey doing? Why would her relationship—or lack thereof—with Brock irritate Damian? Was it because he’d killed Hank and didn’t want Brock getting too close to a federal agent? If they were even dating. They weren’t dating. Were they?
