Ed gave Kieran a thumbs up and switched off the mic. Conversations resumed at a muted level, but tension laced through the room.
Kieran guided Beth towards the stairs.
She protested. ‘I’m fine, I said.’ The colour had returned to her cheeks, but something behind her eyes didn’t match her insistence.
He tried humour. ‘Hey, I know Robin Williams’s death hit people hard, but…’
It fell flat. Spectacularly. Beth opened her door, stepped inside. ‘You can go back,’ she said. ‘I’ll come down in a bit. Rose can hold the fort.’
He hesitated. Something was wrong. Really wrong. But Beth’s tone made it clear his presence might push her further into whatever storm she was weathering.
‘All right,’ he murmured. ‘But I’m not leaving until you tell me who shot J.R.’
Beth’s voice was small, tired, but clear. ‘Kristin Shepard. His sister-in-law … and mistress. My mum loved the show.’
Kieran let out a low whistle. ‘Messy families.’
Beth didn’t laugh. Her hand gripped the edge of the door, knuckles white.
He wanted to reach out.
He didn’t.
She closed the door gently, Kieran was left staring at the wood grain, a cold tightness settling in his chest.
Whatever was going on with Beth wasn’t just stress.
But he wasn’t ready to walk away.
Chapter Nineteen
After a lie down and a splash of cold water, Beth returned to the pub just as Ed was preparing to announce the final quiz round.
‘Erm, there’s something wrong with the microphone,’ he said, tapping it experimentally. It rewarded him with a high-pitched squeal, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a mischievous giggle. Beth’s insides did an uncomfortable somersault.
She glanced across the room. Kieran caught her eye and shrugged, his expression sayingI heard that too.
‘Did the mic fall off the back of a lorry?’ quipped Harvey, which drew a ripple of chuckles.
Ed, refusing to be flustered, flicked the switch off and on again. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Moving swiftly on. This is the wildcard round, folks!’
Groans, cheers, the rustle of scoresheets.
Beth stayed long enough to hear the first question before ducking behind the bar. She poured herself a glass of water and perched on a stool.
‘Only two questions to go. Ready? Which popular UK fizzy drink brand launched its famous “The Totally Tropical Taste” advertising campaign in 1975?’
Murmured debates filled the room. Beth took a sip from her glass – and froze as the skirl of bagpipes drifted faintly through the air. No one else reacted. The sound evaporated as quickly as it came, leaving her pulse thudding.
‘No cheating, Wilma!’ Ed called.
Wilma huffed, stuffed her phone in her handbag, and muttered about quiz fascism.
Beth shook her head and raised her glass again, only to choke back a gasp. The clear water was now fizzy yellow. Pineapple, grapefruit. Sweet and sharp. She tipped it down the sink with a muttered curse.
A voice shouted, ‘No, it’s not the one made from girders!’
‘Shut up, stop giving people hints,’ snarled their teammate.
