Christian blew out a long breath and pointed his spoon at her. “Man. I felt like I just watched a movie play across your face, Olly. You should never play poker.”
Shoot. She’d lost control of the conversation she’d never controlled in the first place. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your family gathering.” Total lie. She’d meant to sit down, fully aware they wouldn’t ignore her. By the quick flash of amusement across Brock’s face, he knew it, too. “Pretend like I’m not here.”
She leaned back as Amka approached, balancing bowls of soup with practiced ease. A bowl of clam chowder and a soda landed in front of her with a clink. The aroma of creamy broth and fresh herbs teased her senses.
Amka placed a plastic container with the lid to the side as well as a soda bottle in front of Christian. “Silverware is wrapped in the napkins in the center of the table, if you want to eat any here.” She gave him a small smile before bustling away toward another table.
Damian’s sharp features tensed. “Christian? You wanted me in town, so here I am. What did you want to say to me?”
Christian didn’t look up as he unwrapped a napkin, claimed a spoon, and sampled the soup. “It’s Ace.”
Brock’s brows drew together. “What about Ace?”
“He’s unraveling, and I’m done with it.” Christian’s spoon scratched softly against the interior of his bowl.
“I thought he seemed better,” Brock said, taking a swig of his beer, though his posture remained stiff.
Christian continued eating, slow and deliberate. “He’s been going out to the cemetery and drinking with Hank.” He paused, then added, “Well, drinking alone. Passing out on Hank’s headstone.”
Brock’s arms crossed tightly over his chest, his frown deepening. “Hank isn’t even buried there. We cremated him and scattered his ashes in the river.”
Damian’s smile looked strained as he leaned back in his chair. “That’s illegal, I’m sure, Agent Spilazi. So, what Brock meant is that someone scattered the ashes.”
Christian didn’t react, but Ophelia caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—his version of acknowledgment.
“Just like someone shot Hank.” Ophelia’s voice cut through the tension as she sampled the soup. The delicious warmth slid down her throat, chasing away the cold from outside and providing a momentary sense of comfort.
Nobody answered her. She set down the spoon and turned to look directly at Christian. “When you say you’re done with it, what does that mean?”
She already suspected that he wouldn’t admit if Ace had been the one who fired the shot that ended Hank’s life. But right now, he felt like the most likely suspect.
The silence stretched. Brock’s jaw ticked. Damian’s eyes darkened.
And yet, Christian’s gaze remained steady—fixed somewhere far away, where none of them could follow.
“I’m going to dry him out,” Christian finally said, putting the lid on the soup. “He’s not going to like it, and neither am I.” Christian pushed back his chair and stood. His movements were deliberate, each one as controlled as the man himself. “Damian? I’ve given Brock a week. There has to be some sort of detox unit in that mystery facility you now run.” He gently slid the chair back into place, economical in every movement.
“Where is Ace?” Ophelia asked, eyes narrowing.
Brock scrubbed both hands down his angular face, exhaustion etched into every line. “I don’t know. I thought he planned to help plow the river road today.”
“He’s drunk at his place,” Christian said bluntly, reaching into his back pocket and tossing a twenty on the table. He stood. “Tell Amka to keep the change.”
Ophelia cleared her throat. “I know that Hank was in pain and dying from pancreatic cancer.”
All three men stilled. As one, their focus centered on her, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to shift on the seat. “Anybody who shot him might’ve considered it a mercy killing.” She met each of their gazes in turn, trying not to squirm. “Brock has an alibi. Do either of you two have one?” It was the most direct she’d been able to be with them. She finally understood their refusal to help in the investigation.
“You can speak with our lawyer after I find one.” Damian stood and left money as well, his expression unreadable. “Christian? I’ll walk you out.”
Ophelia’s jaw firmed as frustration simmered beneath her skin. She didn’t have enough to take either man into custody. Not yet, anyway. So they did not have to speak with her. “Also, I heard you’re quite the good Samaritan, allowing Wyatt and Sylvie Yankovich to take the supply plane to Anchorage. That’s a new development, no?”
His grin was perfectly charming in that Osprey-badass way that seemed almost rehearsed. “The kid nearly lost his feet, and the plane was already headed to Anchorage for the next couple of weeks, so why not?”
Neither Brock nor Christian revealed their thoughts, their poker faces ironclad.
Ophelia tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t want Wyatt talking to me about monsters in the mountains that take out eyes?”
Damian’s amusement deepened, darkening his eyes even more. “I’m sure.” He knocked Brock lightly on the shoulder and gave Ophelia a polite nod. “Brock? Let’s meet up later today. We need to talk.”
