Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
B rock’s stomach rumbled as he parked his rig outside Sam’s. The bar offered clam chowder today, and his hunger gnawed at him. The temptation to text Ophelia and invite her to meet him almost had him reaching for his phone. Yet the stubborn woman had headed off on her own to talk to Doc and flat-out refused to let him accompany her. Yeah, she was still pissed. He couldn’t blame her.
The warmth of the bar hit him immediately, carrying the familiar scents of fresh bread, seafood, and wood smoke from the fire near the corner. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior, scanning the tables until they landed on a man sitting near the fire, leaning over several muted red file folders.
Brock forgot all about the text as he crossed the room and pulled out a chair.
“Hi, Brock,” Damian said without looking up, his voice as smooth as ever, but with an edge Brock didn’t miss.
“Hi.” Brock gestured toward Amka, who was wiping down the bar with long, purposeful swipes of her cloth, then leaned on the table, folding his arms. “What are you doing here?”
Damian closed the top file folder with a quiet snap and finally looked up, his sharp gaze hooded beneath thick lashes. His face appeared unreadable, as though it had been carved from stone. “It’s clam chowder day.”
Brock’s lips tugged into a reluctant half-smile as he took in his brother’s appearance. Damian’s tailored gray suit fit like it had been made for him—because it probably had. The crisp white shirt beneath his jacket was starkly clean, unwrinkled, and practically glowing under the dim lighting. His silk tie was a deep emerald green, knotted so precisely that it looked like it had been tied by a machine.
“You’re a little overdressed for clam chowder day.”
Before Damian could respond, Amka arrived with a steaming bowl of soup and a frosty beer, setting them down with practiced ease. She offered Brock a small smile. Her faded jeans hugged her hips, worn in at the knees, and her light flannel shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, showing slender, strong forearms. Strands of dark hair had escaped her ponytail and framed her face. “Here’s your chowder,” she said lightly.
“Thanks.” The delicious smell made his stomach rumble.
“I have a to-go thermos for Christian if you see him. He loves clam chowder day.” She didn’t wait for an answer, gathering the dirty dishes from the next table in one fluid motion before heading back to the bar, her boots thudding softly against the wooden floor.
“That’s interesting. What’s up between them?” Damian pushed the file folders aside as he reached for his beer. The amber liquid shimmered as it sloshed in the glass.
Brock watched Amka for a beat longer before answering. “Nothing. Christian’s a wild animal right now who barely comes into town. She feeds all the wild animals.” He shrugged. “True story. The woman even feeds the squirrels during the summer.”
Damian chuckled, the sound low and brief. “Soft-hearted, huh?”
“Something like that,” Brock muttered.
Damian took a sip from his glass, his brow lifting in a familiar arch. “How’s it going with the Fed?” He leaned back, a lazy grin spreading across his face, the kind of grin that could either charm or infuriate, depending on who was on the receiving end. “You two sleeping together?”
Brock took a long pull from his beer, the cool liquid sliding down his throat and dulling his temper—though not by much. The cold bitterness of the beer felt good, but his irritation simmered beneath the surface. His jaw clenched slightly as he set the glass down with a dull thunk against the wooden table. He studied Damian for a long moment, weighing his words carefully. “The Fed is pissed off at me right now. How’s your ex-wife?”
Damian’s lips twitched as he set his glass down, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Couldn’t tell you. Last I heard, she was running a CIA op somewhere in Taiwan.”
Which meant she probably wasn’t in Taiwan at all. If Damian mentioned it out loud, she was likely halfway across the world in some location too classified to admit.
“Someday,” Brock said, eyeing his brother, searching for cracks in his calm exterior, “I’d like to hear the full story about your Stella.”
“There’s no story,” Damian replied with a nonchalant shrug, though the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed something deeper. He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands in front of him. “You should take the sheriff job, Brock. There’s no reason for you not to. The town needs a sheriff, and you’re the best person for the job.”
Brock resisted the urge to sigh. The weight of the town’s needs felt heavier than it should’ve. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I’d have to coordinate with the FBI, and I don’t want to do that.”
Damian’s second eyebrow rose this time, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile that was both knowing and infuriating. “Consider that taken care of, then.”
Brock paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. What the hell did that mean?
Irritation pricked along his skin like static electricity, but he pushed it down and dug into his clam chowder. The taste, as always, was phenomenal—rich with fresh clams, potatoes cooked just right, and Amka’s signature seasoning.
But even the best chowder couldn’t mask the tension thickening the air at the table.
“The clam chowder is excellent,” Brock said, watching Damian closely. “But not delicious enough to bring you all the way into town. So…what’s up?”
Damian ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the dark strands falling right back into place as if even his hair knew better than to defy him. “I thought I’d just pop into town and visit my home.”
Amusement tugged at Brock, and he set down his spoon, leaning back slightly. “Christian got to you.”
“Yeah. You could say that.” Damian took in one long pull of beer, his shoulders one long line of tension.
Brock chuckled, shaking his head. “You work in one of the most secure facilities in the world, yet our brother somehow sent you a message? What did he convey?”
“That if I didn’t come into town today, he’d take down the secure facility in a way I wouldn’t appreciate.” Damian’s lips tilted into an unwilling smile, the expression equal parts exasperation and fondness. “While I’m fairly certain my new protective measures would’ve held, it’s clam chowder day, so I figured…why not?”
Brock laughed under his breath. It was such a Christian thing to do—threatening something insane while counting on their sense of obligation to reel him back in.
“Has he made an appearance?”
Damian shook his head. “Nope. I sensed him outside when I came in, but he hasn’t made the move yet.” He tapped the table lightly with two fingers. “Is it just me, or is he getting even more antisocial?”
“I don’t know,” Brock admitted. “He’s always preferred the outdoors, but there’s something else going on with him. Not sure what.” He paused, letting the thought linger before leaning in. “Have you figured out the identity of the victim who wore the EVE jacket?”
Damian’s expression grew serious, the earlier humor fading like a distant echo. “No.” He met Brock’s gaze squarely. “I told your woman the truth. We aren’t missing any employees—or contractors. Not a single one.”
Brock’s eyes narrowed as Amka returned to deliver another frosty beer, clearing Damian’s nearly empty mug. Damian’s gaze followed her as she moved across the room, her ponytail bouncing slightly with each step. “She gets more beautiful every year, doesn’t she?”
Brock grunted, a noncommittal sound, though he didn’t argue.
Damian leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping slightly. “I heard a rumor she got engaged to Jarod Teller.” He rolled his eyes, an exaggerated gesture. “That guy’s been a jackass since day one. What’s going on there?”
Brock lifted a shoulder, keeping his tone neutral. “If I could explain, I would.” His gaze sharpened. “But stop changing the subject. You know more than you’re saying about the dead guy.”
“I know more about most things than I can ever reveal. Treason and all that,” Damian said smoothly, taking a deep drink from his beer. The knot of his emerald tie stayed perfectly in place, undisturbed despite his movements. “But in this case, I truly have no idea about his identity. There’s no missing employee at EVE. Everyone is accounted for, and we haven’t had any turnover for at least a year.”
Brock stared at his brother for a long moment before asking, “What are you even doing working for EVE, Damian? You wanted out of active duty—or active intelligence, or whatever the hell you’ve been doing for the last few years—but EVE? If you’re there, they’re not just studying the ionosphere.”
Damian finished his soup, wiping his mouth with a napkin in slow, deliberate movements that spoke of control. “The ionosphere is important, Brock. Understanding it is critical to protecting the world’s food supply. What we’re doing is worthy of my time.” His smile sharpened, but his eyes remained shadowed, as though some private thought lingered behind them. “Of course, I’m not the director of the entire facility. Yet.”
“Fair enough,” Brock muttered, tired of the endless game of half-truths. He let the silence stretch between them until it felt almost suffocating, the only sounds in the bar the low murmur of conversation and the soft crackle of the fire. Finally, he dropped the bomb. “Did you kill Hank?”
Damian paused, his beer mug halfway to his mouth, the amber liquid catching the firelight. His gaze snapped to Brock’s face, sharp and unwavering. “No. Did you?”
“No.” Brock searched his brother’s expression and felt absurdly pleased that he couldn’t read it. Damian had always been the most composed of the brothers, his poker face legendary. But Brock knew one thing—Damian wouldn’t lie to him in this situation. Treason? Sure. Murdering Hank? Never.
“Hank was dying,” Brock said quietly, the words tasting bitter as they left his mouth.
“Yes.”
Brock lowered his voice further, almost a whisper. “Anybody who killed him just helped him end the pain the way he wanted.” His throat tightened as the weight of the thought pressed down on his chest. “But who would Hank ask?”
“I’m aware.” Damian set his glass down with a muted clink, his body visibly relaxing as if relieved to finally discuss what had been sitting like a stone between them. “If it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me…who’s your guess? Christian?”
“Maybe. But Ace has been in a rough place since Hank died. It could be guilt.” Brock’s fingers tightened around his spoon until his knuckles turned white. “Hank died by drowning and being shot. I fucking found him.” If Monica hadn’t been with him, would he have still notified the sheriff? The question might never be answered because he truly didn’t know.
Damian lifted a powerful shoulder beneath his perfectly tailored suit jacket, a movement as calm as if they were discussing the weather. “I would’ve probably turned away after the shot. Out of pain or instinct, maybe both. I read the autopsy report. Hank’s lungs barely had water in them. My guess? He was shot, fell into the river, sucked in one or two breaths, and that was it. In my mind, he died of cancer. Period.”
Brock didn’t ask how Damian had gotten ahold of the autopsy report—he didn’t need to know. “Agreed. Cancer killed Hank.” The diagnosis alone had been a death sentence, one none of them could’ve beaten.
The outside door opened with a loud creak, letting in a gust of icy wind that scattered snowflakes onto the wooden floor.
Damian straightened, his polished demeanor sliding back into place like armor. “Christian’s here. Let’s ask him if he fired that deadly shot.”