Donny let out a long breath. “Impeccable timing,” he said.
“We were just having a business conversation,” Fletcher said. He’d repositioned himself with the window behind him and the door in front. I wasn’t sure what his plan was or if he even had one. Cornered men rarely did. He looked at Donny then back at us. “I was explaining to Donny that the Kettlebrook situation is more complicated than it looks.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Declan said.
Fletcher’s eyes moved to him. “You’re the one who figured it out.”
It wasn’t quite a question.
“An old newspaper article showing that you were a sharpshooter helped.” Declan pushed his glasses up. “And the fact that you ran track in school but didn’t finish a festival 5k the morning someone took a shot at Beckett Hayes.” He held Fletcher’s gaze. “You’ve been trying to save the brewery ever since Roy died. The Kettlebrook contract was your last chance. When Beckett turned you down, and Kettlebrook pulled out, Donny became your problem. Because he isn’t just in the running for that contract; he’s the man you owe money to. A lot of money.”
I watched Fletcher. My wolf watched him, too, reading the shift in his posture, the change in his scent.
“You should’ve stayed out of it,” Fletcher said. He was looking at me now, not Declan, which I preferred. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Everything in this town concerns me,” I said.
His jaw worked. “The shot at the race wasn’t meant to hit anyone. It was a warning. I needed Beckett to understand that turning down my job offer had consequences.” He said it like it was reasonable. Like the words made sense outside his own head.
“You fired into a crowd,” I said. “At a public event.”
“No one got hurt,” he said.
“But they could have,” Declan insisted.
Fletcher turned toward him, and I was prepared to launch myself at him, but I didn’t have to because he froze when he saw that the doorway behind us was no longer empty.
Grady stood there in his brown sheriff’s uniform flanked by Elwood and Mellgren.
“Fletcher,” Elwood said. “I think it’s time you spoke with Sheriff King.”
Fletcher looked at the doorway. Then at me. Then at Declan. His shoulders dropped. It was a small thing. Almost nothing. But I’d been reading people across a bar for long enough to know when someone knew they were beat.
“I didn’t kill Roy,” Fletcher said. Quietly. Like something he’d been holding for days and couldn’t hold anymore. “I didn’t touch him. We were arguing, and he’d been drinking. He slipped, and I—” His voice broke slightly on the word. “I couldn’t reach him in time.”
“You didn’t call for help,” I said. “You put the lid on the vat and left him there.”
“I panicked. I thought if anyone found out, everything would fall apart. I thought if I just left, maybe it would look like an accident. Maybe it would be over.”
“But it wasn’t,” Declan said.
“No,” Fletcher said. “It wasn’t.”
“Covering up a death and shooting at a crowd is still quite a lot,” Declan offered helpfully.
“It genuinely is,” Mellgren said.
Fletcher sat down on the edge of the bed. No one stopped him. There was nowhere to go.
“Someone want to fill me in?” Grady asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “But we’ll walk you through it.”
He sighed the sigh of a man who’d accepted his lot. “Someone get me a coffee.”
I put my hand on the back of Declan’s neck, warm and steady, and pressed a brief kiss to his temple.
“You figured it out,” I said.
