“I don’t know.” He looked back at the picture. “Maybe.”

“My dad took a lot of crap when he made the decision to switch. It’s a lot of work, and you’ve got your foot in both departments. Not quite a cop, and not quite a fireman either.”

“He took a lot of crap?” His voice dropped.

She glanced at the kitchen doorway. Her parents were still having a heated conversation, but she couldn’t make out anything but whispers. What on earth was up with them?

Irish was waiting for an answer, so Hannah looked back at him. “Yeah. He was in line to be chief, and he turned it down. He’d been a great fireman, but there was a massive fire and some people died during his shift. He couldn’t get them all out in time. After that, he didn’t want to walk into another active scene. The guys in his crew thought he got afraid. They thought he was running from his job.”

Her father spoke from the doorway. “What do you think?”

Hannah straightened so quickly that she bumped the table and made the water slosh. “Dad. Sorry.”

“What do you think?” he said again. His tone was even—not irritated, yet not warm either. Just level. Patient. His investigator voice.

Hannah hated that voice.

She looked back at him. “I guess it’s going to have to remain a mystery.”

“Your mother asked if you could get the rolls and put them in a basket.”

She hated this voice, too. This was his dismissal voice.

Hannah was tempted to curtsey and mock him. Luckily, this wasn’t high school. Besides, she had an audience.

She looked at Irish before she made her way back to the kitchen, and gave him one last warning. “Remember what I said. He’s great at this job, too.”

Then she brushed past her father without even looking at him.

CHAPTER 11

The Roadhouse Bar and Grill sat along Magothy Beach Road, a few blocks off the water and surrounded by an acre of trees. Beige paint peeled away from the siding in numerous places, and a few fake palm trees swayed in the November wind.

Michael had never been here, but it was obviously popular, given the packed parking lot. He found a spot for the truck at the back of the restaurant, between the back door and the Dumpster.

When he killed the engine, he just sat there.

He had half a mind to drive back to Adam’s apartment, to tell his brothers that “the guy” never showed to talk about a landscaping job that didn’t exist. Then he’d help himself to a few slices of pizza—if there was any left, given the way they’d attacked the boxes when the delivery guy showed up. They could break out a deck of cards and pretend their lives weren’t skirting the edge of disaster.

And then the real guy who was threatening them would burn down the whole place.

Michael got out of the truck.

The gravel of the parking lot offered no information. No threat of danger, no hint of a problem.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text.

How will I know you?

You’ll know me when you see me.

Did that mean his mysterious texter wasn’t here yet, but he’d arrive in a way that was unmistakable? Or that Michael would recognize him on sight?

He’d worried all afternoon that this was another way to lure him away from his brothers—but what choice did he have? He sure as hell wasn’t going to bring them with him. And whoever set this meeting had implied that Michael could bring anyone he wanted—including the police.

Was that an extension of trust? Or a finely laid trap?

Maybe he should have involved the police. Hannah’s father was still waiting to talk to him. Michael pulled the fire marshal’s card out of his jeans pocket—now washed, though soot still stained the seams—and considered dialing.

Then he remembered the photo of Hannah and James on the school steps.

This was too close to home, for all of them. He wasn’t putting anyone else in danger if he didn’t have to.

Michael shoved his phone back in his pocket and circled around to the front of the building. Some older guys in layered flannel held the door for him on their way out. Jukebox music hit him hard when he crossed the threshold. He’d expected a simple bar with a few tables, but the place was bigger than it looked from the outside. A polished wood bar stretched across the rear of the restaurant, tended by an aging man with tufts of white hair. Swinging doors led to a kitchen beyond. A middle-aged waitress burst through them with a tray of steaming plates: gravy fries, nachos, Buffalo chicken wings. Bar food. At least eighteen tables crowded the open area, and all were occupied. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and Michael’s boots crunched through them as he stepped out of the doorway.

His eyes swept the room once. Dim lighting didn’t reveal much, and several people had their backs to him, but no one looked suspicious. Everyone seemed engaged, whether in food or a conversation. Mostly men over thirty, mostly blue collar, in for a quick drink or a dinner before heading home for the night. Flannel and denim everywhere. Laughter and loud voices carried over the music.

The waitress stopped in front of him on her way between tables, and he was so keyed up that for a second, he worried this forty-year-old frizzy-haired woman was his mystery person. Then she gave him a puzzled look and said, “It’s seat yourself, sweetie.”

He cast his gaze past her, at the bar, and then back to the door. “I don’t—I’m meeting someone—”

“What’s wrong, Merrick? Run out of lawns to mow?”