by Skye Jordan
Avery toggled her pencil between her fingers, wondering whether she should tell someone about the call. Pearl had told Avery the music therapy had improved George’s disposition, but if that was true, she couldn’t imagine what he’d been like before. On the couple of short visits she’d made to his house to drop off food, Pearl had been there, and George had been straddling zombieland. Trace had mentioned something called a sundown syndrome, but Avery didn’t remember what that was.
She dialed the sheriff’s substation and asked to speak with Zane, but he was out on patrol. She didn’t have Pearl’s number, but she could get it from Phoebe. If she could get ahold of Phoebe. That woman was busier than a corporate executive.
Avery decided not to get a handful of people upset over a harmless phone call and went back to work. By the time she’d made final cuts to the starting menu and scheduled interviews for potential employees, dusk had turned to night, and Trace still hadn’t returned.
Figuring he might have gone straight home, Avery cleaned up and double-checked all the locks on the doors. She’d just drive by their house and make sure his father was okay on her way to Phoebe’s.
She locked the front door behind her, tested it, and jogged down the porch steps to her Jeep.
“You there.”
The voice felt like a punch to her gut. Avery let out a startled sound and spun.
A shadowed figure shuffled toward her. “You there. Where do you think you’re goin’? It ain’t quittin’ time. I’ve been around long enough to know last call is two a.m. We ain’t even close, and I need a scotch and soda.”
George Hutton’s weary face came into the beam of an exterior light. With her hand to her chest, Avery exhaled in relief. “Mr. Hutton, you scared me.” She glanced behind him, searching for a car, but found the driveway empty and dark. “How’d you get here?”
“Walked, how do you think?”
His snappy tone alerted Avery to his mood. She was trying to decide how to handle him when he walked into the light. He was wearing pajamas—and nothing on his feet.
Alarm tightened her chest. Avery didn’t know what to say or not to say, uneasy about upsetting him further. She pulled out her phone again and pressed the speed dial for Phoebe.
“Get off that phone, girl,” he said, passing her to hobble up the steps, leaving behind footprints. In blood.
“Holy shit,” she muttered as Phoebe’s voice mail answered.
He tried the door. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be cursin’. Not ladylike.” He knocked on the glass as if he expected someone to answer. “Come on—open up, Joe. What’s wrong with you? You drunk again?”
Crap.
Avery disconnected and followed him to the front door. She unlocked it and held it open for him. “Looks like you might have cut your foot. I’ll take a look at that while we wait for Trace to get back.”
“Drink first.”
“Sure.” She flipped on the lights and closed the door.
He was squinting around the bar-turned-café like he’d just walked into an alien’s nightclub.
“Do you remember me, Mr. Hutton? I’m Joe’s daughter, Avery.”
His gaze turned on her. “The middle girl. Sure.” He looked around the café again, confused. “What the hell is he doing in here?”
She didn’t think he’d take the news that her father had been dead over three years very well, so she said, “Just a little renovation.” She took George’s arm and led him to a chair. “Let’s get you a seat.”
He dropped into it with a huff, then sighed. “Thank you, darlin’.”
Avery smiled. “You’re welcome. Now, what can I get you? Are you hungry? I’ve got great sandwich fixings. Black forest ham, honeyed turkey breast—”
“Roast beef sounds good. Roast beef and cheddar.”
“Roast beef and cheddar it is.”
“Don’t forget the scotch and soda.”
Avery pursed her lips. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of scotch.” In fact, she didn’t have any liquor in the café at all. Then she thought of the two beers left from Trace’s six-pack. “Could I interest you in a beer?”
“Out of scotch?” He gave Avery a sour look. “Your daddy’s really letting this place go to hell.”
Avery fought a grin. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Fine, a beer then.”
She spun toward the kitchen, pulled out one of Trace’s IPAs, pried open the top, and grabbed the first aid kit from the pantry before returning to the table. “Here you go. You sip on this while I look at your feet.”
She knelt, gently lifted his foot, and found it chewed up from walking over a mile along a dark country road to get here. Trace was going to be beside himself.
“Hey,” he said with surprise in his voice, “this is good. I don’t usually like beer, but this ain’t bad.”
“You remember Ethan Hayes?”
“Harlan’s grandson. Sure.”
For not knowing current time and place very well, his memory for the past sure was sharp. “Ethan and Harlan brew this beer.”
“Heh,” he chuckled. “The old man loves sharing his hobby with that boy.”
Avery wet cotton balls with hydrogen peroxide and cleaned the bottom of one foot, doing her best the get the embedded gravel out. Since George didn’t complain, she kept working.
“Wish I could be half the father to Trace and Zane as Harlan is to that grandson of his.”
The sadness in his voice tugged at Avery’s heart. “I’m sure you’re a great father. I know Trace loves you.”
He smiled, his gaze distant. “That boy is my pride and joy. Zane’s a good boy down deep, but he’s a wild one. Trace . . . man, that kid’s got heart. Real heart, you know? That’s something you can’t teach. A kid’s either got it or he doesn’t. Trace’s got it in spades.”
Mr. Hutton drank more beer, and Avery started on the other foot, letting the silence linger. Her thoughts turned to Trace. She agreed with George, Trace did have a lot of heart. And a lot of compassion. And kindness. All of which she loved about him.
“Where is everyone?” Mr. Hutton asked, looking around again. “Can’t play poker with two.”
She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call Trace to see when he’ll be back. Maybe he can bring enough friends for a game.”
Or tell her what to say to his father to placate him until Trace returned.
“Ha. Trace don’t play cards,” George said. “Trace don’t gamble. Trace don’t do nothin’ wrong.”
Avery listened to Trace’s rich voice on his message, and yearning pulled in her chest. She ached to apologize for what she’d said earlier. “Hey, it’s me. Your dad showed up at the café. Don’t worry—aside from cut-up feet, he’s fine. I’m bandaging him up and getting him something to eat; then I’ll bring him home and wait there with him.” She hesitated. “I’d really like to talk later. I didn’t mean to insult you with what I said about JT today. I don’t see you that way, I just . . .” She sighed. “Well, maybe we can talk about it later.”
Mr. Hutton didn’t even seem to know Avery made the call. He was still talking about Trace. “Trace don’t smoke. Trace don’t drink. Trace don’t touch drugs.”
Avery frowned up at Mr. Hutton, confused. “You mean Zane?”
“No. Zane’s got mischief in his blood. Always in trouble. If his mama and I had Zane first, we’d never have had Trace. But Trace.” He shook his head. “The perfect kid. A natural athlete, comes home with straight As, always happy.” He grew serious and sad. “Boy could have really made something of himself.”
Avery added antibiotic ointment to George’s feet and wrapped them with gauze. “He has made something of himself,” she said, trying to clarify which son he was talking about. “He’s a police officer. I’d say that’s pretty great.”
“No, that’s Zane, and ironic as hell. But he says troublemakers make the best cops because they think like criminals.”
She finished bandaging one foot, then started on the other. Tryi
ng to untangle the thoughts of a man with dementia had to be its own kind of crazy, right?
“But it was Trace who ended up in prison,” she said.
“Because of me.” George’s eyes fell closed and a pained look etched his face. “All because of me.” He shook his head, opened his eyes and yelled, “Joe! Where the hell is everyone?” Avery jumped, and her heart banged against her chest. “I want to win back that hundred bucks you stole from me last week.”
Avery finished bandaging up his other foot with rattled nerves, then stood. “All right. I’ll make you a sandwich, and we’ll take it home with you. But I’m driving you this time.”
“I ain’t going home, missy,” he said, annoyed with her again. “I’m playing a goddamned poker game. And I need a scotch and soda. What’s this beer doing here? I hate beer.”
Avery bit her lip. “I guess I’ll get you your sandwich then.”
She turned for the kitchen, tapped into speed dial, and hit Delaney’s number.
“Hey there,” she answered immediately. “What’s up?”
Avery closed her eyes and winced when she whispered, “I need your help.”
“Wait, what? Hold on, hold on—I’m putting you on speaker. Okay, say that again so Ethan can hear.”
“Shut up.”
“No, not that part, the other thing. You know that word that starts with h.”
“God, Delaney—” She cut herself off, knowing her sister wouldn’t let up until she got what she wanted. “I need your help. Grab a pen and paper and get ready to move.”
Once she had Delaney and Ethan on board, Avery made a quick sandwich for George. When she sat it down in front of him, she said, “Maybe when you’re done you’ll want to try out my new piano.”
George’s gaze lifted to hers. “Piano? What piano?”
She pointed to it. “It was donated, and I had someone come work on it the other day. Trace told me you used to play in the choir. Maybe you can tell me if they did a good job tuning it.”
Without touching his sandwich, George pushed from the chair and hobbled in that direction. He lifted the key cover with a gentle reverence. Henry had not only tuned it but cleaned it as well. Now the old wood shone, and the keys gleamed.
“This is an oldie, isn’t it?” George asked.
“It is.”
He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, then narrowed his eyes on Avery. “You sure I play? I don’t remember playing.”
She nodded. “Trace and Pearl told me. You don’t remember singing either, but Pearl says you’re singing every morning.”
He returned his gaze to the keys.
“Sit,” she suggested. “Just play around for a few minutes. See if anything feels right.”
George lowered to the bench, placed his hands over the keys, and played some quick scales. His gaze jumped to Avery’s, and the grin that cut across his face filled her with happiness.
She patted his shoulder. “You just enjoy yourself. I’m going to get ready for our poker game.”
ELEVEN
Trace couldn’t get that morning out of his mind. He’d been going over it and over it in his head, trying to figure out how JT had gotten in. Avery might think she’d left the door open, but Trace doubted it. Even exhausted, Avery was a creature of habit. And safety was one of her habits.
The forklift eased roof tiles into Trace’s truck, and he tossed a thick nylon rope across the bed.
“Can you grab some more nails?” he asked JT. “And wait for the receipt?”
“Sure thing.”
JT turned and whistled his way into the office of the building supply warehouse. Trace finished tying down the roof shingles, his mind back on that morning. He didn’t believe she’d left the door unlocked, let alone open. And even though—according to the cons at Folsom—no lock was pick-proof, Trace had installed the highest-quality dead bolts to minimize amateur break-ins.
And JT was an amateur.
Through the office window, Trace saw JT talking to the woman behind the desk and slipped into the cab of the truck. With his gaze on the office, Trace grabbed the jacket JT had left on the seat and dipped his hand into one pocket.
Matches, receipts, gum.
He slid the jacket across the seat to reach the other pocket and felt the unmistakable weight of something heavy. He pushed his hand into the pocket and touched metal. Trace pulled out the object—and found a small black gun in his hand.
Trace’s stomach went cold, his chest tight. “Fucking A.”
“Hell, how do you know he doesn’t have a weapon?”
Trace glanced toward the office again before he set the gun aside and dug deeper into the pocket and found more metal. But this was small. And Trace pulled out a key. A single, shiny key.
Rage slammed against his rib cage, demanding release, but Trace knew he had to keep that emotion locked down if he wanted to stay out here in the real world.
JT exited the office with a box of nails and a piece of paper. With his teeth clenched, Trace tossed the gun into his glove compartment, grabbed JT’s jacket, and met him in the middle of the parking lot.
He held up the key. “Explain this.”
JT’s gaze jumped between the key and Trace’s face a few times. “Explain what? My apartment key?” His expression turned sour. “What are you doing? Going through my stuff? That’s not cool, man.”
He grabbed for his jacket, but Trace pulled it out of reach. “What’s not cool is me going out on a limb to give you a job and you cutting off the branch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the way this key matches up with my key to the café.”
JT’s belligerence turned angry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” Trace shoved the jacket against JT’s chest. “You’re fired. Get the fuck out of my sight, and don’t ever let me see your face again. You got that?”
Trace walked backward until he was out of jumping range, then turned for his truck.
“Dude,” JT yelled. “You lifted my gun. Give it back.”
Trace stopped and pivoted. “You can have your gun or peace with your PO. Which do you want more?”
JT read Trace’s threat to tell his PO about the weapon, and fury broke over his face. “That’s fucked, man. That’s fucked.”
Trace walked the rest of the way to the truck with JT yelling obscenities and threats, and drove away with JT’s furious gestures in the rearview mirror.
He drove two miles, then stopped on the side of the highway, where weeds and bushes lined the fence. Dragging the gun from the glove box, he pulled the clip, emptied the chamber, and wiped down the metal with the hem of his T-shirt—ironically, all things he’d learned inside prison. Then he made damn sure there were no cops in sight and tossed the weapon out the driver’s window.
Only when he was on the road again, free from JT and rid of that gun, did he breathe easier. Taking him on had been one of the worst decisions Trace had ever made. And the thought of that weapon so close to Avery, of JT so close to Avery, of what he could have done to Avery when Trace’s back was turned . . .
His teeth clenched, and a feral sound vibrated in Trace’s throat.
He spent the first fifteen minutes of the drive back just wrangling his fury under control. The next fifteen minutes planning how he’d finish the roof on his own before the rain came. And the last trying to figure out how to apologize to Avery in a way that conveyed his epiphany about how wrong he’d been.
He pulled off the highway with a sick knot in his stomach and dragged his phone from the center console to make a call to Gram to see if she could go check on George. Trace had to track Avery down to deliver the news and the apology he hadn’t figured out yet.
At the stoplight, he tapped the “Home” button. Instead of lighting up with the background and the time, a row of two missed calls and two awaiting messages faced him—all from Avery.
A
lick of panic stung his gut as his mind raced over reasons she would be trying to get ahold of him this late. An urgent problem at the café, an opportunity to ream him for acting like such an asshole today . . . Hell, she could have been calling to fire him.
He tapped the speaker on his phone, held his breath, and played the messages back.
As soon as Trace heard the words, “Your dad showed up at the café,” all his air whooshed out.
“What?” He ground his teeth, holding in his fear and anger until he’d heard everything. The apology in her voice hadn’t been anywhere close to what he’d been expecting. But he didn’t jump to the conclusion that she’d want to mend fences with him, because, well, this wasn’t his first asshole moment with her. When her message finished playing, Trace scraped his fingers into his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
He deleted her message and played the next one.
“Me again,” she said to voice mail. “Just an update. Your dad doesn’t want to go home, so we’ll wait for you at the café. See you soon.”
“Oh, great,” he muttered. His dad was having one of his stubborn moments. “Just fucking perfect.”
Trace pushed harder on the gas. This was the last thing Avery needed—an ornery old man, with dementia no less—planting himself in the middle of her café at the end of a very long day. And his father’s mind only slipped deeper into confusion when he was stressed. The bar’s transition into a café, the replacement of Joe with Avery, the absence of alcohol and cards would rattle him enough to twist his thoughts into a dust devil and push his acceptance of change into the negative zone. All that would trigger irrational anger and mix memories until he made no sense at all and turned belligerent.
Thinking of that stress on top of all the stress Trace had already caused Avery made him anxious as he pulled into the café’s drive.
The first sign of trouble hit him immediately—a half-dozen cars in the lot besides Avery’s Jeep. The next sign hit a second later—Zane’s patrol car among those vehicles.
“Shit.”
Fear joined Trace’s stress. Reasons for all these cars to be here bounced around his brain, making it hard to think, to plan. He pulled up behind a couple of cars and turned off the truck’s engine but left the lights on and keys in the ignition as he jumped out and took the front steps two at a time.
