Page 28 of Texas
“Shit,” he mutters, then he sets the glass down. “I got a good guess who those belong to.”
“I figured you might.”
“Cody Mathers drives a black Silverado. Used to work for Will’s development company. Got canned for skimming off the top, but Will kept him close. That kind of man keeps his dogs hungry.”
“And the white one?”
“Could be Denny Voss. He works maintenance for the golf course. Will’s cousin on his mother’s side.” I nod. I don’t know these names, but I know the type. Small-town muscle. Loyal to whoever pays their bills and keeps their secrets.
“They live around here?” I ask and Hank nods slowly.
“Mathers has a place out near the old mill road,” Hank says. “Voss is in the trailer park east of town. But they drink at The Hollow on Friday nights. You want to see them up close, that’s your place.”
“I’m not looking for a bar fight.”
He raises a shaggy white brow. “No? Could’ve fooled me.” Then he reaches under the counter and pulls something out. A .357 revolver, nickel-plated, classic as hell. He sets it on thecounter between us like he’s offering a menu item. “Just in case you were wondering, I’m not worried about trouble coming through that door.”
I stare at it, and it looks old, heavy, and familiar. “You keep that loaded?”
“Five rounds. I keep the hammer on the empty chamber. I may be old, but I’m not dumb.”
Leaning forward, I rest my arms on the counter. “You sure you want to be this close to it, Hank?” I ask. “This thing with Will, it’s not smoke anymore. It’s fire.”
Slipping the gun away again, he shrugs. “I’ve lived in this town for forty years. Watched it get swallowed by people like him,” he says. “I’ve seen high school librarians get fired for putting Toni Morrison on a shelf. I’ve seen women run out of town for leaving their husbands. I’m not scared of Will Cleveland.”
“But you’re worried about me.”
His eyes meet mine. “You’re not from here,” he says. “You don’t know how deep his roots go. I don’t want to see you get buried under them.”
Taking in his words, I nod. “I appreciate that. But I’m not leaving. Not just yet.”
“You should.”
“I can’t.”
Wiping away a bead of sweat from his glass of tea, he exhales. “Then be smart,” he says. “Don’t let him decide the terms.”
“I’m working on it,” I say, tapping the counter once. “Thanks, Hank.” He nods again, and when I stand, he holds out a hand. I take it and his skin is raspy and tough against my palm, but there’s a lot of strength in it too. I’m not afraid of crossing Will Cleveland, but I’d think twice about messing with Hank Martin.
“Watch your back,” he says. “I hope to see you again.”
“You will.”
Back outside, the heat slaps me in the face. I climb back on the Harley and ride four blocks to the Dogwood Bluff Public Library. The building’s a squat brick thing with a newer annex attached. Some glass and steel try to make the place look modern, but the bones are still old. There’s a mural on the side wall that I like. Kids reading under a tree, painted in bright colors that have started to fade. The parking lot’s half full, mostly sedans and minivans and I park under a tree, kill the engine, and head in. The sun feels like a punishment, pressing down from above while the asphalt radiates heat from below.
Inside, it smells like dust, paper, and lemon polish. The floors creak under my boots. There’s a kid’s section to the left, filled with bean bags and low shelves with a few teens whispering over laptops in the back corner. Donna Lennox is at the front desk, pulling a stack of books from the return bin. She’s in a sleeveless blouse and wide-legged linen pants, silver bracelets jangling softly as she moves. Her hair’s pulled back, and she looks like she’s in her element among books and eager minds. She sees me and smiles, like she’s not surprised, just pleased.
“I was wondering if you’d come see me.”
I raise a brow. “That obvious?”
“Only to people who pay attention,” she says as she pulls the last book from the bin and wipes her hands on a cloth. “Come with me.” We walk down a narrow hallway lined with posters. Banned Books Week, author signings, and a flyer for a queer book club that I bet Will’s friends hate. She unlocks a small conference room with frosted glass walls and a round table in the center. Shutting the door behind us, she gestures for me to sit and settles across from me. “How bad is it?”
“Worse than you think,” I say. “He’s got cameras on the property. GPS on my bike. Sent two trucks after me yesterday. Tried to run me off the road.”
Although her face pales a bit under the tanned skin, she doesn’t blink. “Are you all right?”
“Still standing.”
