Anything to bring back the man I knew and loved.
I remember when I made him a cup of coffee mixed up real special the way he liked it with a touch of honey and cinnamon, and the way he smiled. When his lips curled up and he finally had this faint shine in his eyes that almost resembled the old dad, I—
No. Nope. Stop it.
I can’t afford this trip down memory lane when the price is bawling here in the middle of Brody’s, and especially not in front of Flynn when he’s leaking useful info.
So I force a smile so intense it hurts my cheeks.
“He gave up a lot for us, didn’t he?” I say, and that sets him off all over again.
“Oh, little lady, you have no damn idea.” Flynn’s getting louder, and if I don’t want him giving things away to half the bar, I need to figure out how to bring him back down. But he’s barreling on, loose-lipped and worked up, waving an arm out so sharply he almost smacks me. “Telling you, he was gonna do right by y’all. Those snakes fucked him over, and he was gonna fuck ’em right back. If you knew the big ol’ heist he had planned...”
My heart stops—if it ever even restarted again after a thousand and one shocks tonight.
Flynn locks his gaze on mine and lets out a weird chortle that squints his eyes up into these crescents before his face sags like melting wax.
“He was gonna get y’all out of here, Little Bee. He wanted to move you and your mama somewhere nicer, somewhere you could all start over without this town and it’s never-ending shit,” he spits. “He was gunning for their cash—a lot of goddamned cash—and he said he’d be coming home with gold. But guess they got him before he got their stinking money.”
Oh, no.
Oh, God.
He just dropped a nuclear truth bomb confirming my worst suspicions. And I’ve got to shut him up now. Ideally before the heads turning toward us become some interest we can’t afford.
Luckily, Alaska’s there before me, his big body rising off the stool and moving to block the line of sight between the rest of the bar and us.
He drapes a heavy, companionable arm over Flynn’s shoulder.
“You seem like you’ve had too much, friend,” he says. “Think I could give you a ride home?”
“Gerroff me,” Flynn slurs, shoving uselessly at an arm that probably feels like a two-ton weight. “Ain’t gonna end up like ol’ Morgan, man. You ain’t dragging me off nowhere. I know what happens when big ol’ bruisers like you give someone a ride.”
“What happens?” I whisper, my heart clawing my throat.
Flynn just stares at me, his red-rimmed eyes almost eerie, haunting.
And then he draws his finger across his sagging throat with a soft “Shhhhk” sound, hissed between his pale lips.
My stomach flips.
I’m going to be sick.
“You...you really think they murdered Dad?” I choke out.
Flynn pins me with a nasty eye, leaning closer.
“Little Bee, I know it,” he leers, but at least he’s being quieter, talking to me in this old witch-man growl that makes my skin crawl. “I knew your daddy better than my own brother. He wouldn’t have gone out like that. Somebody did him dirty. Gave him a ride just like big guy here wants to give me one—”
“Hey,” Alaska protests. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
Flynn charges on like Alaska didn’t say a word. “—and shot him up. Whole thing was a big-ass con job. A cover-up. And idiot assholes like our own bumbling Mayberry bought it hook, line, and sinker.” He jabs a finger at me, the nail yellowed and cracked. “You mark my words, missy. They killed your dad.” He shakes his whole body, shoving at Alaska. “Get the fuck off me, you gorilla.”
“Polar bear. That’s the magic word,” I murmur in a sad attempt at comic relief.
My head’s falling apart.
The whole world blurs, receding into this dull roar.
“I don’t give a shit what animal he is. He’s gonna be squealing like a stuck pig if he doesn’t get his grimy paws off me.”
“Grimy? C’mon now. These paws practically own stock in pumice soap.” Alaska raises his arm, lifting both hands with a good-natured smile. “Hands off. No need to throw any punches. We’ll leave you in peace, man. Enjoy your night.”
I’m glad Alaska’s keeping this situation under control.
Because I’m about to flipping break.
And unlike Flynn, I’m grateful for the arm around my shoulders as Alaska pulls me to his side—into his heat, his strength, his comfort.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s pick up your dog and anything else you need. Think it’s time for you to get a solid night’s rest.”
Rest.
Like I’ll be able to sleep after hearing from the horse’s mouth.
My dad was murdered. He somehow stole a load of cash and laundered it into gold—probably hoping it’d be less traceable and easier to hide until he was ready to make it cash again—and now I’m sitting on millions of dollars of reasons why he died.
Like I’ll ever be able to sleep again. Always looking over my shoulder and wondering when Paisley’s going to show up to make sure another Randall finds an early grave.
I. Am. Cursed.
And I don’t know how to break it before it savages everyone around me.
Including the kind, brave giant guiding me out of the bar with his arms around me like I’ve always belonged there.
Like he’s big enough to shield me from the horror.
Kind enough to put my shattered pieces back together.
Whole enough to be the hero, the marvel, the man I could let myself love.
My eyes sting like I’m facedown in a hornet’s nest because I can’t have any of that. I can’t let Alaska save me.
I don’t belong in his tender arms.
I don’t belong anywhere.
Definitely not with this perfect soul who belongs to heaven, when all I can ever bring is hell.
I’m a little calmer by the time we swing by Ember and Doc’s to get my dog, and then drive to my place to pick up more of Shrub’s things—and my own—to bring back to Alaska’s cabin.
He follows me inside without a word, unspoken knowledge between us that it’s not even safe to let me out of his sight. The moment we walk inside, Shrub slips out of my arms and does an excited, yapping circuit around the living room.
Apparently, he’s the only one excited to actually be home.
I don’t know how I feel. Too many memories in this house, and they’re all threatening to swamp me as I sink down on the sofa and bury my face in my hands.
“He actually said it,” I whisper. I don’t even know what I’m saying right now, the words just spill out of me. “He actually said they...they killed my dad. It wasn’t an overdose. It was a setup the whole time. Dad stole that money, that gold, so they took his life.”
“One question—who’s ‘they?’” Alaska asks.
I jerk, realizing—oh, crap—I’m not alone.
But I almost wish I was when I look up.
He’s standing near the door, not sitting down, his posture tense—and the way he’s looking at me seems almost wary.