in the windows was suddenly deafening.
“Really?” Sean practically squeaked in surprise. He jerked his thumb at Jackson. “Stalin here is letting you walk around asking questions about your dad’s murder?”
“I am … in fact.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook. Jackson gaped at her audacity. “I was hoping to ask your father a few questions. He ran the bar then, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he here?”
Was she nuts? She couldn’t walk into this bar, with him in it, and just start asking questions. No way . WhenSean glanced sideways at Jackson, Jackson didn’t even feel bad about shaking his head.
Monica saw it and jumped like she’d been bitten on the butt. “Jackson doesn’t have anything to do with this. And I certainly don’t need his permission to ask your father a couple of questions about that night.”
“No, but you do need mine.” Sean grabbed a napkin and a pen from behind the bar. “Here,” he said. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning. You call him around noon, before he starts watching the baseball game.”
Sean slid the napkin across the bar toward her.
“Thanks,” she said, folding the napkin and tucking it in her bag. “I don’t suppose you remember anything from that night?”
“I was only five,” Sean said, running a hand through his hair. Of course he had memories of that night. The whole town did. Jackson did. There had been camera crews, coroners, jazz music fans wailing in the street for a week after the murder. “But I remember all the cops around the kitchen table the next morning. My mom freaking out. I remember Dad was covered in blood when he got home.”
Jackson got a crippling vision of how this week would go if Monica was able to walk around asking questions. People would line up to tell her their memories of that night. And he just couldn’t have this town distracted from the vision they were trying to create—the “story” they were trying to tell, which was the polar opposite of the story she was trying to tell.
Jackson cleared his throat, and Sean got the message.
“That’s … that’s all I remember. Really.” He pulled himself a beer and walked back to the table. No doubt, Jackson would hear about Sean’s restraint tomorrow.
Monica whirled to face him, her eyes shooting daggers. “What the hell, Jackson?”
“I could say the same, Monica.” Jackson poured himselfanother beer. Probably a mistake, but he was kind of in the mood to make a mistake. It was Monica’s influence. “You said you’d be discreet,” he reminded her. “Walking into The Pour House on Saturday night is not discreet.”
She twisted her lips, which he translated as a concession. “Fine,” she snapped. “Perhaps … I was not the most subtle.”
“So, we’re both sorry.”
“That’s a stretch.”
He smiled, unable to help himself.
She frowned at him, which didn’t do a single thing to kill his smile.
“Are you going to warn the whole town to stay away from me?”
“No. Just the ones you want to talk to in public about the murder.”
“What about telling people to do yard work on a Saturday night?”
“I didn’t tell them anything. Truth is, poker night is pretty much a dismal failure. Two people came in, took one look at me, and left.”
“I can understand the inclination.” Irresistibly, she was both sweet and spicy at once. And as he was getting excited, she was relaxing, he could tell, the curve of those shoulders easing from indignant to … reserved.
“I can’t imagine it will be a good time writing that book,” he said. Thinking of the kind of scab that would grow over a wound like that and the pain involved in ripping it off for the world to see. Or … maybe he had it wrong. Maybe she’d had years of counseling and was totally at peace with it.
“It’s not supposed to be a good time,” she said. “It’s a job.”
“Do you like being a writer?” He reached over and topped up her glass.
“Really?” Sean practically squeaked in surprise. He jerked his thumb at Jackson. “Stalin here is letting you walk around asking questions about your dad’s murder?”
“I am … in fact.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook. Jackson gaped at her audacity. “I was hoping to ask your father a few questions. He ran the bar then, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he here?”
Was she nuts? She couldn’t walk into this bar, with him in it, and just start asking questions. No way . WhenSean glanced sideways at Jackson, Jackson didn’t even feel bad about shaking his head.
Monica saw it and jumped like she’d been bitten on the butt. “Jackson doesn’t have anything to do with this. And I certainly don’t need his permission to ask your father a couple of questions about that night.”
“No, but you do need mine.” Sean grabbed a napkin and a pen from behind the bar. “Here,” he said. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning. You call him around noon, before he starts watching the baseball game.”
Sean slid the napkin across the bar toward her.
“Thanks,” she said, folding the napkin and tucking it in her bag. “I don’t suppose you remember anything from that night?”
“I was only five,” Sean said, running a hand through his hair. Of course he had memories of that night. The whole town did. Jackson did. There had been camera crews, coroners, jazz music fans wailing in the street for a week after the murder. “But I remember all the cops around the kitchen table the next morning. My mom freaking out. I remember Dad was covered in blood when he got home.”
Jackson got a crippling vision of how this week would go if Monica was able to walk around asking questions. People would line up to tell her their memories of that night. And he just couldn’t have this town distracted from the vision they were trying to create—the “story” they were trying to tell, which was the polar opposite of the story she was trying to tell.
Jackson cleared his throat, and Sean got the message.
“That’s … that’s all I remember. Really.” He pulled himself a beer and walked back to the table. No doubt, Jackson would hear about Sean’s restraint tomorrow.
Monica whirled to face him, her eyes shooting daggers. “What the hell, Jackson?”
“I could say the same, Monica.” Jackson poured himselfanother beer. Probably a mistake, but he was kind of in the mood to make a mistake. It was Monica’s influence. “You said you’d be discreet,” he reminded her. “Walking into The Pour House on Saturday night is not discreet.”
She twisted her lips, which he translated as a concession. “Fine,” she snapped. “Perhaps … I was not the most subtle.”
“So, we’re both sorry.”
“That’s a stretch.”
He smiled, unable to help himself.
She frowned at him, which didn’t do a single thing to kill his smile.
“Are you going to warn the whole town to stay away from me?”
“No. Just the ones you want to talk to in public about the murder.”
“What about telling people to do yard work on a Saturday night?”
“I didn’t tell them anything. Truth is, poker night is pretty much a dismal failure. Two people came in, took one look at me, and left.”
“I can understand the inclination.” Irresistibly, she was both sweet and spicy at once. And as he was getting excited, she was relaxing, he could tell, the curve of those shoulders easing from indignant to … reserved.
“I can’t imagine it will be a good time writing that book,” he said. Thinking of the kind of scab that would grow over a wound like that and the pain involved in ripping it off for the world to see. Or … maybe he had it wrong. Maybe she’d had years of counseling and was totally at peace with it.
“It’s not supposed to be a good time,” she said. “It’s a job.”
“Do you like being a writer?” He reached over and topped up her glass.
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