I flip up my collar when the slight drizzle turns into sleet coming down in earnest. Francisi tucks away his notepad and motions me to follow him to his cruiser. I barely flinch when I open his passenger side door and slide in.
“What is the woman’s hang-up with you?” he asks, turning sideways in his seat.
“Fuck if I know. When 9/11 happened, I never saw or heard from her again. Not even an attempt. Then I’m released and suddenly she shows up here in Beaverton, wanting to reconnect and not taking no for an answer.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“Not a damn clue.”
“Okay, guess I’ll have to pay Ms. Simms a visit, but first let me see if anyone at the Dirty Dog has seen anything.”
The sleet has let up again so we make our way inside. The smell of hot grease has my stomach grumbling as we sidle up to the bar. Bunker is chatting with a few regulars at the far end but comes over when he sees us.
“What can I get you guys?”
“Actually,” Francisi answers. “I’m working, I just have a few questions.”
Bunker glances questioningly at me but I shrug.
“I’ll wait ‘til he’s done.”
“Fire away, Francisi.”
“Have you by any chance noticed anything unusual out in the parking lot today? Anyone hanging around who didn’t have reason to be there?”
“Here? Why?”
“We’ll get to that,” Francisi answers firmly.
Bunker takes his time thinking before he responds.
“Not really. I opened up at noon and it was pretty quiet for the first hour before people started dropping in. Probably no more than three or four vehicles in the parking lot until maybe an hour ago.”
“Anyone come in or out of the side door?”
The door Francisi is referring to is right underneath the stairway to the apartment. The dumpster is on the other side and I heard the door open and close a few times this afternoon, but that’s not unusual. Staff is tossing out garbage all the time. The kitchen is right there.
“No. Not that I know of.”
“I heard the door at least twice,” I contribute, turning to the cop to clarify. “My apartment is right upstairs.”
“Could’ve been Sammie,” he suggests.
Sammie is one of the kitchen employees. An old guy, probably in his seventies, who’s apparently been a staple at the Dirty Dog for twenty or so years.
“That the only one?” Francisi asks.
“As far as I know.” Bunker shrugs. “Well, except for my cousin. She popped in when I was still cleaning up from last night. She offered to take the garbage on her way out the door.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yeah. She lives in Clare but has crashed at my place from time to time, since she started working at the diner.”
I don’t realize I’ve gotten to my feet, my knuckles white holding onto the bar, until I feel Francisi’s restraining hand on my shoulder.
“Fucking Becca? She’s your cousin?” I bite off, faintly registering the stunned look on Bunker’s face.
“You know her?”
His surprise seems genuine enough, but I’m still unable to let the tension go from my hands.
“Any idea where I can find her?” Derek asks.
“At the diner.”
“She got canned yesterday,” I volunteer.
“What? She never said anything.” He shakes his head in confusion. “Wait, how do you know Becca?”
I take in a deep breath to try and get my temper under control before I repeat to Bunker what I told the cop earlier, noting the look of disbelief on his face when I fill him in.
“Look,” he says when I’m done. “I’m sorry, man, I had no idea. She never let on she knew you, not even when I mentioned…” he lets his words trail off and clenches his jaw.
“Mentioned what?” Francisi asks.
I catch a mix of anger and regret when Bunker throws a glance my way.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “My aunt’s birthday in October; I took my mother to Clare to see her. Becca was there. I may have mentioned Frank leaving you the Dirty Dog.”
My blood roars in my ears and white-hot anger is beating its way to the surface. That miserable bitch. I grab the first thing I can find—the inverted glass covering one of the beer taps—and haul out, flinging the glass to the far wall.
“Jesus fucking Christ, man!” I hear Bunker call out, as I’m spun around and pinned to the edge of the bar, Francisi’s bulk holding me in place. Now panic is creeping in. Snaps of being pressed face forward into whitewashed concrete and held there by too many hands start flashing in front of my eyes. I struggle against the hold, hearing a man’s voice muttering something by my ear but the words all blend together.
“Let him go.”
That I hear loud and clear through the roaring in my ears and I grab on to the sound of her voice, rising like a beacon from the ruins of my life.
“You’re okay,” she whispers, and I feel her cool hand on my face. “Just breathe. You’re fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Robin
“Eat a little more.”
I watch his silver head shake. He’s barely eaten half of what I’ve seen him put away before, but I’m not going to push him.
He hasn’t spoken a word since I coaxed him away from the bar and into the passenger side of my SUV. Not on the drive here, not while I heated up some of yesterday’s leftovers for us, and not during dinner.
I take his half-finished plate and my empty one and set them on the counter in the kitchen.
I’m not sure what to do at this point. He’s in a weird place where I don’t feel I can reach him. Something happened back in that bar and Officer Francisi’s explanations only go so far.
I’m beyond furious at that bitch, Becca. Not only does it appear her pursuit of Gray had little to do with him and everything to do with what she thought he could provide for her, but it turns she also doesn’t take rejection well, judging by the four slashed tires on Gray’s truck.
Francisi mentioned he had reason to
