For almost an hour, Tyler managed to let the murders slip to the back of his mind. The accusations, Adam’s constant scrutiny, all of it faded beneath the warm glow of the restaurant lights and the way Brooke’s laughter curled around him like something he didn’t deserve but wanted anyway. It felt right. It was exactly what he’d hoped the night would be.
The server brought the check, and Tyler grabbed it instantly. Brooke looked like she wanted to protest untilhe shook his head. “I told you, my mama raised me right.” He slipped in enough cash for the bill and a generous tip.
He took a sip of water, not wanting the time to end. “So, you think you’re well enough to run tomorrow?”
“It’s been two weeks. Two weeks today. The headaches are gone, and the bruising is mostly gone. The cut is still tender when I catch it with my brush, but I’m good. Even Gina agrees I can do it as long as I take it easy. And you know how Gina is. Old mother hen.” She smiled.
He knew it was true. Gina, Steph, and another friend named Jocelyn were always there for Brooke.
Even so, Tyler knew Brooke hadn’t told them they were seeing each other again. Her cousin Nick didn’t know either, since he’d no doubt tell Gina. That’s what couples do.
And Brooke certainly hadn’t told Joe Monroe. He’d done several reports on Monique’s death and the connection between her and Sheila. He never used Tyler’s name in the reports, but there were plenty of suggestions as to who the primary suspect was. Enough hints were dropped that anyone who’d been paying attention could put things together.
A shadow fell across their table.
Tyler looked up. A man stood there, around forty, with thinning hair plastered to his forehead and a belly shaped by too many nights spent leaning against a bar. His face was ruddy, his eyes sharp and unfriendly.
“Tyler Gillis,” the man said.
Tyler stiffened. “Can I help you?”
“Thought it was you.”
Brooke leaned forward in her seat. “Hello,” she smiled, her voice friendly. “Something we can help you with?”
He ignored her and stared at Tyler. “You don’t recognize me?”
Tyler stared at the man for a moment. He was vaguely familiar, but Tyler couldn’t place him or put a name on him. Someone from the shop, maybe? Or from before when he lived in Basin County. A classmate, maybe? “Sorry, no...”
“I’m Rusty. Rusty Jones.” The name came out sharp and accusatory. “Sheila’s ex-husband.”
The restaurant noise faded. Brooke gasped, and several diners nearby looked their way.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tyler said carefully.
“Are you?” Rusty’s voice rose. “Because from where I’m standing, you don’t look sorry at all. You look like you’re out on a date, having a good time, like you didn’t kill my ex-wife.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Rusty leaned closer. His breath smelled like alcohol. “You were there. At the bank. Same time she left work. Same night she died.”
“Lots of people use the bank.”
“Not lots of people dated her. Not lots of people had reason to want her dead.”
Tyler’s hands clenched under the table. “I didn’t want Sheila dead. I barely knew her anymore.”
“Liar.” Rusty grabbed the edge of the table. “You killed my Sheila, and you killed Monique. And you’re going to pay for it.”
“Rusty.” Brooke’s voice was calm but firm. “You’re upset. We understand that. But Tyler didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Who are you? The girlfriend everyone’s talking about?” Rusty’s laugh was ugly. “Better watch out, sweetheart. You might be next.”
Tyler stood. “That’s enough.”
“Or what?” Rusty straightened to his full height, still shorter than Tyler. He had weight on him, though, most of it around his middle. “You going to kill me too?”
“I’m going to ask you to leave us alone.”
