Page 12 of Whiskey Chase
Devlin gave a sigh, weighing his words carefully. “You know, I think I might have known him better than I knew her. I worked with him. We were both legislators in the Maryland House of Delegates.”
“Were?” I pressed.
“We’re out of session right now, and I am on a leave of absence to get my shit together.”
It felt like there was alotmore to that story than he was willing to spill. I decided to be patient… for now.
“Did you confront her?” I asked, resting my chin on my hand.
“Not in any meaningful, satisfying way. I didn’t even know she was cheating. I had my eyes on a Senate race in a few years. Political careers are built decades in advance. It meant less attention on the present. Maybe I should have paid more attention.”
“Did she know about your career goals?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Then it’s her own damn fault, Dev, not yours.”
“I could have tried harder, been more available—”
“Yeah and she could havenotput someone else’s dick in her,” I said bluntly. “Don’t be looking for reasons why she’s right and you’re wrong. You didn’t make her go fuck someone else. So stop wasting your time being all ‘what if this?’ and ‘what if that?’ It’s a waste of time and energy. And it’s not going to make you feel better.”
Devlin blinked at my bluntness.
“You’re going to regret not confronting her,” I predicted.
“If I ask you something, will you give me a straight answer?”
“Sure.”
“What’s a pepperoni roll?”
“Are you fucking serious?” I gaped at him. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Clarabell, get this man a pepperoni roll stat!”
6
Devlin
The few bites of pepperoni roll I managed after the open-faced hot turkey sandwich that took up the entire plate were indeed delicious. My appetite had been MIA for a couple of months as had my motivation to go to the gym. Consequently, my strength and energy were waning. My physique, once a source of pride, had withered in the mirror.
Maybe a pepperoni roll or two would be my path back to the gym, back to life.
Scarlett slapped my hand when I reached for my wallet. She paid at the cashier stand and chatted with Clarabell about a softball game that sounded more like a competitive drinking match.
Clarabell gave me a wink and a finger wiggle before making her rounds down the line of booths.
I reached for the door to hold it for Scarlett, but she paused just inside the door at the community bulletin board. She tapped the pads of her fingers to the name on a MISSING PERSON poster. From the looks of it, the poster was old.
“Who’s that?” I asked, staring at the black and white photo of a teenage girl.
Scarlett’s pretty mouth opened in a perfect O. “Granny Louisa didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
She ducked out the door and tugged me with her.
“There are two things Bootleg is famous for,” she lectured, slipping back into tour guide mode. “Bootlegging and the disappearance of Callie Kendall.”
I frowned. The name sounded familiar. Vaguely.
