“I understand.”
“Do you?” Sue’s expression was worried. “Because I’m not sure you do. This town is talking. About you, about the murders, about Brooke.”
“What about her?” Tyler asked quietly.
“People saw the patrol cars at Gina’s house on Sunday. They know you were there. They know Brooke was there.” Sue set down her mug. “And I heard about her being attacked on Saturday. I’m glad it wasn’t too serious.”
“It was serious enough.”
She dipped her chin. “I drove by her coffee shop on the way to work. The place is packed. Everyone wants to see her, wanting to know what’s going on between you two.”
Tyler’s chest tightened. He’d been avoiding his phone, avoiding Brooke’s texts. He was trying to give her space, to give himself space while he sorted out whether he should keep seeing her. He hadn’t considered that staying away might not be enough, that just being associated with him was causing problems.
“I should go,” Tyler said. He wanted to stay and fight, to prove his innocence and be with Brooke. But now that just seemed stupid. It would hurt people he cared about. It would hurt Brooke.
“Go where?”
“Leave town. Go somewhere else where I’m not bringing trouble to people who don’t deserve it.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Sue touched his arm. “I’m saying be smart. Figure out who’s doing this and clear your name. But until then, maybe keep some distance from people who could get hurt by association.”
The phone rang, and she gave him a smile. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Sure,” he muttered.
She reached for the phone on the shop wall, an old-fashioned kind that rang with an obnoxious bell and had a cord. He could hear her but not make out the words. After a moment, she called, “Tyler, it’s for you.”
His first thought was Brooke. He’d ignored her texts and calls, and now she was trying his work line. As he neared Sue, he mouthed, “Who is it?”
She shrugged. “Not sure. A guy.”
Adam Boverman. It had to be him.
He reluctantly took the receiver. “This is Tyler. Can I help you?”
“Tyler Gillis?”
“Yes?” Not Adam. Tyler didn’t recognize the voice, but from the way the man stumbled over his name, it sounded like the guy must have had Bloody Marys for breakfast. Or, more likely, Old Milwaukee.
“Sheila wasn’ . . . enough for ya? Had ta . . . go an’ . . . have Monique too?”
“Who is this?”
“Ya know who dish is.”
“Sorry, pal. I don’t.”
“Rusty. Rusty Jones. Sheila’s husband.”
Slur and all, that came through clear as a bell. “I’m, uh, sorry for your loss—”
“Shave it. I’m gonna make sure you pay.”
The line went silent. Tyler shook his head as he hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” Sue said, startling him.
“Uh . . . Sheila’s husband.”
