Chapter Five
The bar wore a quieter face at seven—music low from the ceiling speaker, fryer sleeping, blinds turning the last of the light into slatted gold.
Ethan took the same corner he’d owned the night before.
Back to the wall, coffee in a whiskey glass, phone open to names the town would rather not say out loud.
Wooldridge. Kerrigan. Hill. Sergeant James.
He read, notched, filed. Information steadied him. It didn’t make it easier.
“You always this serious?” Lainey asked, leaning an elbow on the bar. No lipstick tonight. Ponytail. Sharp eyes.
“Occupational hazard,” he said, not looking up.
“Uh-huh.” Her gaze slid past him to the door, then back. “Play nice if I send somebody over?”
“Depends who.”
“Somebody who bleeds sawdust,” she said, and tipped her chin.
Brock came in like a shoulder through brush—ballcap low, sleeves shoved to the elbows, forearms nicked and dusty.
Boots scuffed, knuckles rough. Scrappy as a barn cat that kept winning anyway.
He paused at Lainey’s station. She didn’t say much—just a hand on his wrist for a beat, a look that meant don’t wreck my place, and a nod toward Ethan.
Brock crossed the room and stopped at the far edge of Ethan’s table. “Kane.”
Ethan set the phone face down. “Brock.”
“Mind if I sit?” He didn’t wait for the answer. Dropped into the chair like he was planting a flag. Lainey drifted down the bar, polishing a glass she’d already cleaned, keeping them both in her peripheral.
Brock glanced at the coffee. “You’re a real riot.”
“Somebody’s got to be,” Ethan said.
They let the house playlist fill the space for a few beats—steel and smoke, soft enough to eavesdrop over.
“You know why I’m here,” Brock said finally, voice low.
“Lot of reasons you could be,” Ethan replied. “Pick one.”
“Amara.” No preamble. “You leave her alone.”
Ethan’s jaw ticked. “She’s a grown woman.”
“Who’s buried a father, propped up a mother, and worked herself to the bone for six months. She doesn’t need a ghost out of her past stirring up ground she barely holds.”
“Your past too?” Ethan asked, mild.
Brock’s mouth flattened. “She’s my friend.”
“Scrappy white knight routine suits you,” Ethan said. “But you don’t get to police the sidewalk.”
“I’m not policing anything,” Brock said, leaning in. “I’m telling you what happens if you bring trouble to her door.”
Ethan didn’t blink. Up close, he clocked the details without trying, A smear of red clay high on Brock’s boot, the faint tan line where safety glasses sat, a paper cut blooming on his thumb from fresh plans, the resin smell that clung to a man who’d been around trusses.
“You come from a job site,” Ethan said.
“Lucky guess.”
“Lainey pulls a double, you come check on her, then stop by here,” Ethan went on, unbothered. “You’ve been hauling something heavier than fence boards. Lumber yard south side’s closed Mondays—that resin says Ridge Supply. That puts you out past County 18.”
Brock’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You always this charming?”
“Only when someone asks me to play nice.” Ethan tilted his head. “She’s building something out there.”
Brock didn’t confirm. He didn’t have to. The beat of silence did it for him.
“Don’t,” Brock said, the word measured. “Don’t go sniffing around her dream.”
Ethan let the line sit between them. “You think I’m the biggest problem on that ridge.”
“I think you’re one of them, yeah.”
Lainey slid two waters down. “Hydrate, heroes,” she said, not quite smiling. To Brock, “You good?”
“I’m fine,” Brock said, eyes still on Ethan.
Ethan took a drink to make the moment look smaller than it was. “You know a Kaleb Wooldridge,” he said, easing the wheel. “You know Daniel Kerrigan. Marcus Hill. You know the clinic they all walked into.”
Brock’s jaw flexed. “I know men who should be alive.”
“Then you know why I’m here,” Ethan said. “And why I’m not leaving because you asked me pretty.”
Brock leaned back, chair creaking. He rubbed at the paper cut like it stung more than it should. “You always got answers, Kane?”
“No. Just better questions.” Ethan nudged the phone. “Like who’s fronting Riverbend. Who’s walking scripts out the side door. Who’s pushing flags onto fences that aren’t theirs.”
Lainey’s rag paused. Brock glanced at her and she gave the tiniest shake of her head. Not here. Not loud.
Brock exhaled. “You want to help? Keep your gun quiet and your shadow off her porch.”
“I don’t carry to show off,” Ethan said. “And I don’t put my shadow anywhere it doesn’t need to be.”
Brock’s mouth quirked like he didn’t hate that answer. “You sure about need?”
“No,” Ethan said. “But I’m sure about danger.”
They sat in it, both of them weighing old history that wasn’t theirs and new trouble that very much was.
The playlist slid into another song. A couple laughed by the door.
Somewhere down the bar, Lainey called in an order to the kitchen and kept one eye on the table like she was willing to break up a fight with nothing but a bar towel.
Brock drummed two fingers once on the table. “She’s scared,” he said, not looking at Ethan. “She’ll never say it that way. But she is.”
“Good,” Ethan said. “Fear keeps you from doing stupid brave things.”
“Sometimes it keeps you from doing the right ones,” Brock shot back. Then, after a beat, “She’s got a line out there the county keeps pretending ain’t theirs. Folks marking what they shouldn’t. That’s all you get.”
Ethan filed it. Line. Not road—line. Survey. He let only the smallest tell show, the angle of his head, the relaxing of his shoulders.
Brock’s gaze flicked down to Ethan’s hands. “You still shake after funerals?”
“Sometimes,” Ethan said.
“Me too,” Brock answered, and just like that the edge dulled a shade.
They left it there, because men like them didn’t make it neat. Brock stood first, chair scraping. He planted his hands on the table, bent enough that Ethan could smell the day on him—sun, sawdust, a hint of diesel.
“Listen,” Brock said. Scrappy, stubborn, white knight to the bone. “If you’re staying, stay for the job. Not for her.”
Ethan looked up at him and didn’t lie. “I’m staying for both.”
Brock closed his eyes once, like he’d expected that and hated being right. When he opened them, Lainey was at his shoulder, hand light on his arm.
“C’mon,” she said. “Give the man his corner.”
Brock tipped his cap at her, then at Ethan. “Don’t make me regret not breaking your nose.”
Ethan’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”
Brock left, Lainey trailing long enough to angle a look back at Ethan. A quiet be careful lived in it.
When they were gone, Ethan rolled the water glass between his palms until the condensation smudged. Ridge Supply. County 18. A line. Her dream. He didn’t need a map. He had enough.
He flipped the phone back over and added one new note in clean, block letters, RIDGE/SOUTH LINE.
Then he slid the coffee toward him, took a slow drink, and let the bar’s quiet settle around the part of him that already knew where he’d be driving when the sun went down.