Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
O phelia caught sight of Christian walking into Sam’s Tavern, so she parked by the curb and jumped out of the Jeep to hustle after him, her boots sliding across the icy ground. The frigid air cut through her coat, but she maintained her balance and entered the warm establishment right after him, noting him stalking toward both Brock and Damian. The rustic interior smelled of cedar and butter, the heat from the fireplace chasing the chill from her bones. Brock’s gaze instantly lifted and met hers.
A shiver wandered through her, sending warmth skittering through her veins. Damn, he was sexy. His broad shoulders stretched the flannel shirt he wore like it had been custom-made for him. Whatever he and Damian discussed looked serious, as both men had nearly identical frowns—the kind that hinted at some long-buried family truth.
She plastered on her best smile and followed Christian. “This is fortuitous.”
Christian didn’t so much as twitch. Instead, he pulled out a chair for her with a deliberate motion, his expression unreadable. Had he known she walked right behind him the entire time? If so, he gave no sign. Nonplussed but slightly impressed, she sat across from Brock and waited until Christian had taken the chair next to her, his frame tense yet controlled.
“Glad you came into town, Damian,” Christian said, his voice rough, though not unkind. His dark hair had been tied back at the nape with what looked like a regular rubber band—functional, not stylish.
Damian angled his head toward the empty soup bowl in front of him, looking every bit the polished, big-city professional in his tailored suit and power tie. He stood in stark contrast to his brothers, who filled out their flannels and jeans in a way that could grace any high-end catalog.
“It’s clam chowder day,” Damian said with a shrug, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested more than the simple statement let on.
Amka wiped her hands on a dishtowel and walked toward them. The pretty woman looked harried, her dark hair twisting out of a ponytail, and her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Despite the chaos around her, her red flannel shirt and jeans remained free of the stains that had collected on the towel she held.
“Soup?” she asked, her gaze flicking between Christian and the others.
Christian’s eyes—one black and one green—glanced toward the door and back again, sharp as knives. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease as he tapped the table with his fingers before finally nodding.
“In a to-go container, Christian?” Amka asked, waiting until he nodded to smile at Ophelia. “Olly, if you’re not allergic to clams or seafood, you’ll like it.”
“Sure, and with a soda, please,” Ophelia said, her curiosity piqued by the quiet interplay. She noted the flaring of Christian’s dual-colored eyes, their intensity fixed solely on Amka as if nobody else existed in the room. In any room.
The woman’s flush deepened, and she quickly turned back toward the kitchen, her tennis shoes silent on the polished wood floor.
Damian cleared his throat. “You wanted me in town, C. Here I am.”
Fascinating. How much would they discuss in front of her? Ophelia leaned back. She knew when to stay silent and observe, a skill that had served her well during her time with the Bureau.
Unlike Christian, who seemed intent on ignoring her entirely, Brock’s attention locked onto her like a physical weight. His dark green eyes bore into her, steady and unrelenting.
She reminded herself that she was an armed federal agent—trained, capable, and not easily shaken. Yet the heat that climbed into her cheeks betrayed her composure. She stared back, irritation flaring at her own reaction. “You have something to say?”
Brock’s rumbling voice came low and even. “How did it go with Doc?”
Damian sat back, tossing his paper napkin into his empty soup bowl with a soft thunk. “Do you two need privacy?”
“No,” Ophelia answered quickly.
“Yes,” Brock drawled at the same time, his lips twitching slightly.
Christian snorted, shaking his head.
Damian’s expression remained impassive, but a new tension seemed to roll off him in waves. Whatever undercurrents existed between them, he didn’t like it.
Ophelia felt her cheeks warm even more. What were they doing? Why would her relationship—or lack thereof—with Brock irritate Damian? Was it because he’d killed Hank and didn’t want Brock getting too close to a federal agent? If they were even dating. They weren’t dating. Were they?
Christian blew out a long breath and pointed his spoon at her. “Man. I felt like I just watched a movie play across your face, Olly. You should never play poker.”
Shoot. She’d lost control of the conversation she’d never controlled in the first place. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your family gathering.” Total lie. She’d meant to sit down, fully aware they wouldn’t ignore her. By the quick flash of amusement across Brock’s face, he knew it, too. “Pretend like I’m not here.”
She leaned back as Amka approached, balancing bowls of soup with practiced ease. A bowl of clam chowder and a soda landed in front of her with a clink. The aroma of creamy broth and fresh herbs teased her senses.
Amka placed a plastic container with the lid to the side as well as a soda bottle in front of Christian. “Silverware is wrapped in the napkins in the center of the table, if you want to eat any here.” She gave him a small smile before bustling away toward another table.
Damian’s sharp features tensed. “Christian? You wanted me in town, so here I am. What did you want to say to me?”
Christian didn’t look up as he unwrapped a napkin, claimed a spoon, and sampled the soup. “It’s Ace.”
Brock’s brows drew together. “What about Ace?”
“He’s unraveling, and I’m done with it.” Christian’s spoon scratched softly against the interior of his bowl.
“I thought he seemed better,” Brock said, taking a swig of his beer, though his posture remained stiff.
Christian continued eating, slow and deliberate. “He’s been going out to the cemetery and drinking with Hank.” He paused, then added, “Well, drinking alone. Passing out on Hank’s headstone.”
Brock’s arms crossed tightly over his chest, his frown deepening. “Hank isn’t even buried there. We cremated him and scattered his ashes in the river.”
Damian’s smile looked strained as he leaned back in his chair. “That’s illegal, I’m sure, Agent Spilazi. So, what Brock meant is that someone scattered the ashes.”
Christian didn’t react, but Ophelia caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—his version of acknowledgment.
“Just like someone shot Hank.” Ophelia’s voice cut through the tension as she sampled the soup. The delicious warmth slid down her throat, chasing away the cold from outside and providing a momentary sense of comfort.
Nobody answered her. She set down the spoon and turned to look directly at Christian. “When you say you’re done with it, what does that mean?”
She already suspected that he wouldn’t admit if Ace had been the one who fired the shot that ended Hank’s life. But right now, he felt like the most likely suspect.
The silence stretched. Brock’s jaw ticked. Damian’s eyes darkened.
And yet, Christian’s gaze remained steady—fixed somewhere far away, where none of them could follow.
“I’m going to dry him out,” Christian finally said, putting the lid on the soup. “He’s not going to like it, and neither am I.” Christian pushed back his chair and stood. His movements were deliberate, each one as controlled as the man himself. “Damian? I’ve given Brock a week. There has to be some sort of detox unit in that mystery facility you now run.” He gently slid the chair back into place, economical in every movement.
“Where is Ace?” Ophelia asked, eyes narrowing.
Brock scrubbed both hands down his angular face, exhaustion etched into every line. “I don’t know. I thought he planned to help plow the river road today.”
“He’s drunk at his place,” Christian said bluntly, reaching into his back pocket and tossing a twenty on the table. He stood. “Tell Amka to keep the change.”
Ophelia cleared her throat. “I know that Hank was in pain and dying from pancreatic cancer.”
All three men stilled. As one, their focus centered on her, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to shift on the seat. “Anybody who shot him might’ve considered it a mercy killing.” She met each of their gazes in turn, trying not to squirm. “Brock has an alibi. Do either of you two have one?” It was the most direct she’d been able to be with them. She finally understood their refusal to help in the investigation.
“You can speak with our lawyer after I find one.” Damian stood and left money as well, his expression unreadable. “Christian? I’ll walk you out.”
Ophelia’s jaw firmed as frustration simmered beneath her skin. She didn’t have enough to take either man into custody. Not yet, anyway. So they did not have to speak with her. “Also, I heard you’re quite the good Samaritan, allowing Wyatt and Sylvie Yankovich to take the supply plane to Anchorage. That’s a new development, no?”
His grin was perfectly charming in that Osprey-badass way that seemed almost rehearsed. “The kid nearly lost his feet, and the plane was already headed to Anchorage for the next couple of weeks, so why not?”
Neither Brock nor Christian revealed their thoughts, their poker faces ironclad.
Ophelia tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t want Wyatt talking to me about monsters in the mountains that take out eyes?”
Damian’s amusement deepened, darkening his eyes even more. “I’m sure.” He knocked Brock lightly on the shoulder and gave Ophelia a polite nod. “Brock? Let’s meet up later today. We need to talk.”
With that, he followed Christian out into the already dwindling daylight, their boots thudding against the wooden floor.
A rush of cold air swept inside, chilling Ophelia to the bone as the door swung shut behind them. She shivered, irritation flaring as she wrapped her hands around the warm bowl of chowder. “He has a new policy just allowing folks to jump on his plane? I don’t think so.” She’d already contacted the FBI in Honolulu, since Wyatt and Sylvie had hopped on a plane. They’d be taken into custody upon landing.
Brock shrugged, though tension rippled across his broad shoulders. “The guy almost froze to death. Heading somewhere warm for a little while makes sense to me.” He took another spoonful of soup as if the matter was settled.
He could be such a pain. She stared at him, wondering if he cared how much his calm demeanor riled her up. “I don’t think your brothers like me.” She dug back into the chowder, trying to clear her mind. She needed to catch Ace while he was drunk—it wasn’t exactly by the book, but it might get the job done. Maybe he’d confess, or at least give her a lead. He’d been sleeping with Tammy, after all. Maybe she’d discovered he killed Hank. Would he then kill her?
“They like you.”
Ophelia looked at Brock, her gaze steady. “I think your brother Damian has narcissistic qualities.”
Brock’s lips quirked as he finished his beer. “Most good leaders do.” His phone buzzed, and he tugged it free of his back pocket, his features tightening as he glanced at the screen. He sighed and stood, muscles rippling beneath his flannel as he moved. “Another damn cat in a tree. We need to elect a sheriff.” He dropped cash next to his bowl, more than enough to cover his meal and tip. “I’m sorry to ditch you.”
Sure, he was. She forced a smile. “No worries. I want to work from here for a while today.” She planned to create a detailed murder board on her laptop, connecting everyone involved in the two cases—three, if she considered the dead man in the EVE jacket whose body had mysteriously vanished. “Have a nice day, Brock.”
He hesitated, a rare softness flickering across his features. “We also need to talk.”
Her heart thudded once. “What about?”
His eyes darkened, and for a brief moment, he looked like everything strong, wild, and untouchable in the world. Not literally untouchable, but definitely figuratively. “Us.”
He didn’t mince words, didn’t play games.
“I know,” she murmured, even though she had no idea what she’d say when that conversation finally happened. Just being near him sent her mind spinning when she needed to focus on her job.
Brock tugged his coat off the chair and shrugged into it. “Later, then.”
He moved past her, the heat of his body brushing close as he left. She didn’t turn to watch him go—but it took everything she had.
Finally, she could take a deep breath. Something about the Osprey brothers stole all the available oxygen in a room. It wasn’t just their size, either—it was the intensity they carried, like they’d been born ready for battle. Shoving her now-empty bowl to the side, she pulled out her laptop and went to work, letting the hum of the bar around her fade into the background. The murder board she created on-screen filled up quickly with faces, dates, and speculative connections that tangled together like a web. There wasn’t enough to arrest Ace. She needed answers, and fast.
“Can I get you another soda?” Amka asked.
“Sure.” Ophelia looked up.
Amka shifted her feet. “Also, I’ve decided not to attend the interview with you later this afternoon.”
Surprise filtered through Ophelia. “Is that a fact?”
“Yes.” Amka met her gaze directly. “Apparently I’m under no obligation to do so. So either arrest me or forget about it.”
Interesting. “Did you kill Tammy because she and your fiancé were having an affair?”
“Of course not.” Amka rolled her eyes. “Seriously.” The woman seemed truthful.
On to the next investigation, then. “Monica Luna told me she saw you opening the tavern late the morning she and Brock found Hank’s body.” Ophelia watched Amka carefully, not seeing a bit of surprise. So Amka knew about the one night stand…and morning.
Amka looked around the tavern and then leaned in, lowering her voice. “Sometimes I open late. It happens. Please don’t tell anybody about Monica and Brock. They partied here the night before and left together, and I’m sure both regret it. Monica loves David. She’s my friend and I don’t want her hurt.”
That made sense. And Ophelia truly believed one of the Osprey brothers had mercy killed Hank, so Amka wasn’t a suspect there. “All right.” She’d gotten the questions answered she wanted. “Please reconsider coming in for a formal and recorded interview.”
“Nope.” Amka turned and returned to work.
Dinnertime came, and Ophelia ordered a burger, savoring the smoky char of the meat as she kept working. The fire crackled nearby, and she resisted the urge to stretch out like a lazy cat basking in the warmth. Too many connections and secrets existed in a small town. Gossip twisted into half-truths, and old grudges lived side by side with whispered warnings. Someone here knew what had happened to Tammy Randsom—and Hank Osprey. She just had to find a source willing to talk.
By seven, the bar started to really hop. Locals crowded in, laughter mingling with the occasional clink of beer mugs and the thump of boots on the hardwood floor. She packed up her belongings, sliding her laptop into its protective case. Spending the day by the fire had been productive—and oddly comforting—but now it was time to go.
She made her way to the counter to pay a rushing-around Amka. The bartender flashed a quick smile as she rang up the order. “Everything okay?”
Ophelia nodded, sliding over a generous tip. “Thanks, Amka.”
“No problem. Stay warm out there.” Amka apparently didn’t hold on to grudges.
The moment Ophelia stepped outside, the icy air rammed right through her jacket like a physical blow. She ducked her head and tucked her chin into her scarf, carefully navigating the slick sidewalk. The streetlights cast long, silver streaks across the snow-covered street, providing just enough glow to combat the winter darkness.
When she reached her Jeep, she stopped dead. What the heck? She leaned down, the frigid air burning her lungs as she inspected her tires. Both on the driver’s side had been slashed to shreds. Heart pounding, she stepped around the front of the vehicle to check the passenger side. Same story. All four tires—destroyed.
Her head dropped, and a wave of frustration settled in her chest. Now what? The freezing cold didn’t invite her to walk all the way to Flossy’s cabin, especially with the wind cutting through her clothes like knives. And it wasn’t like they had Triple A in Knife’s Edge. The local garage wouldn’t open until tomorrow morning, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask Flossy to bundle up and head out into the night for a rescue.
She mulled over her options, her breath clouding the air in front of her. Only one choice made sense. She wanted Brock. Man, she was tired of being alone. Soon she’d have to arrest one of his brothers, and no matter what he said, that would end them. Could she spend one more night with him? Just to hold on to for the future? She pulled out her phone and made a call, hoping they both had service right now.
“Osprey,” Brock’s deep voice answered on the first ring.
Relief flooded through her, warming her more than the fire had. “Hi. It’s Ophelia. I need help.”