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Forty-Five

After talking with Cynthia, which was nothing shy of an assault, Madison had tried reaching Troy again. She might not be able to set things right with Cynthia just yet, but she could try with him. He picked up just when she thought she was bound for voicemail purgatory.

“What is it, Maddy?”

“You want to talk. We’ll talk.”

“I said ‘at home.’ Face-to-face.”

Her heart bumped off rhythm. His insistence that they talk at home had to be because, like Cynthia, he’d connected everything and figured out she was still looking into the mob. That would be preferable to him suggesting they go their separate ways for a while. But he wouldn’t, would he? He’d promised her at the start of their relationship it would take her pissing him off a lot for him to walk. Surely now that she was carrying his child, he’d afford her even more leniency.

“So?” he said. “Are you headed home? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

She wasn’t about to ask him where he’d been all this time, especially when she had to put him off for a bit. “I’m actually following a lead in the case I’m working on—” She paused at the distinct exhalation on Troy’s end of the line. “What?”

“You should be home resting.” His voice held concern and frustration.

“I’ll wrap it up as fast as I can.” Her entire body begged her to just go home and put her feet up.

“Just leave whatever it is to Terry and come home.”

She reached the parking lot, and Terry was poised to toss her the keys for the sedan he’d signed out. He knew her preference was to drive rather than be chauffeured. He lowered his arms when he saw the phone at her ear.

“Maddy?” Troy prompted.

She was torn, but it only felt right that she saw this through as long as she could walk and function. “I have a job to do.”

“Please don’t be too long.” Troy didn’t sound pleased but resigned. “And don’t get on my case if you find me settled in front of the TV when you get here.”

“Oh, don’t you dare.” To her weary bones, parking on a couch sounded like bliss.

“Well, you’re not here, so…” There was a tinge of playfulness in his voice, but it was tentative and fragile, almost as if awaiting reality to crush and destroy it.

“I’ll be home in time for dinner.” Last she knew, it was about two forty in the afternoon.

“Which is?”

“Time or food?”

“Suppose both.”

“Since I’m the one who’s working—”

“Nope, no way. You act like a healthy person, you’re just as responsible for dinner as I am. Can’t have it both ways. Off working during the day, invalid at night.”

“One of those lovely casseroles it is, then.”

“We’ll talk when you get home. Not that you said when that was going to be.”

“Gah. You know I’m not good with clocks.”

“Amuse me.”

She pulled her phone back and looked at the time in the upper left-hand corner. She’d lost twenty minutes; it was three o’clock on the mark. “Give me a couple hours, max.”

“Wow. We’ll be eating with old people.”

“Elderly or mature adults…either term is a little more socially acceptable.”

“Whatever, Maddy. We can always talk while dinner is in the oven.”

Talk. Like a huge, looming storm threatening her life. She preferred the thought of watching TV, but said, “Sure, we can talk while we wait.”

“Good. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” She hung up, and Terry tossed the keys. She reached out to catch them, and a blinding pain fired through her rib cage. The keys clattered to the concrete. “Son of a bitch!”

“Oh. Sorry.” Terry winced. “I wasn’t thinking.” He retrieved the keys while she took slow, even-paced breaths. All her lungs wanted was to gulp oxygen. “Should I take you home?”

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. Sparkles of white light were raining down in front of her vision. She stood there, tamping down her agony, talking herself through it, coaching herself from the ledge of defeat. “You…can…drive.” She grimaced between each word.

“You got it.” He nimbly jogged to the driver’s door, and she waddled over to the passenger side.

She felt every bone of her spine as she lowered herself onto the seat.

“Just to clarify. I’m driving you…”

“To the pub.” She pulled the seat belt across her lap and added, “Thank you.”

“You’re the most hardheaded person I know.”

“Thank you again.”

“Not necessarily a compliment,” he mumbled and drove them to Luck of the Irish.

The entire way, he didn’t say another word and neither did she. She was too busy concentrating on somehow lessening the spikes of pain still bolting through her.

Terry parked in the same lot that Carson had, after he confirmed there were no spaces left behind Luck of the Irish. There was no sign of Cynthia or Mark yet, but they’d be showing up soon.

The uphill walk to the pub was a little challenging and had Madison wishing she’d thought to bring another dosage of pills with her, but she wasn’t about to let the pain win.

Terry got the door to the pub for her, and she stopped to read the sign posted next to it. On Fridays, they opened at noon and closed at three the next morning. It provided a good time frame for Cynthia to watch the video. That was assuming she was going to do that and not delegate the responsibility. Normally, it would be something Cynthia would take on herself, but she was more than ticked off at Madison. Though, surely she wouldn’t let the personal conflict effect how she did her job.

For midafternoon, the place was bustling, and there were more people in there than could have parked out back. People were seated along the length of the long bar, which had to have twenty to thirty stools.

Madison wedged between a couple men, Terry behind her. A man in his thirties, wearing a change apron, smiled at them from behind the counter.

“What can I get ya?”

Madison could do hard liquor if it weren’t for Peanut. Peanut? She withdrew her badge from her pocket and held it for the bartender. Terry mirrored her actions. The men to each side of her shuffled their stools over, giving them more room.

The bartender moved back. “I can get the manager for you.”

“Actually, you might be able to help us,” she said.

The man on her left got up and walked away. She watched after him, but he just found himself another spot at a table. Back to the bartender, she asked, “Were you working the night shift two Fridays ago?”

He shook his head.

“Did I hear you’re looking for someone who worked two Friday nights ago?” A female server approached them, holding an empty tray in one hand.

How she’d overheard was a miracle. Between the music coming over the speakers and people’s conversations, the place wasn’t a library.

“That’s right,” Madison confirmed. “Were you?”

“I was.”

Madison studied the young woman in front of her. Would she be the key to finding Jake Elliott?