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I marched back into the kitchen as soon as the sheriff left.
Gunnar was still at the table, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him along with three empty muffin wrappers. His phone was on the table and he was scrolling through something when I walked in.
He looked up. “Everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay,” I barked. I stalked toward the table, within a few feet of where he was sitting, and he watched my approach with mild surprise.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“You’re the one who should be answering that question.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“How did Sheriff Lewis know about the pick?” I demanded.
Gunnar’s expression contorted into a frown. “What?”
“The pick,” I repeated. “I told you about that in confidence and the sheriff just now accused me of hiding evidence.”
I remembered the exact moment when I’d told Gunnar. It was the day after the showdown with the sheriff, when Jill confessed what she’d done and the sheriff had admitted that the drugs had been stolen out of his car, which made bringing charges against anyone a total impossibility. Gunnar had stopped by to thank me again, and we’d sat on the porch for a few minutes, watching the stars, the cold air turning our breath to frost. He’d been in a low place, worried about Jill, wracked with guilt over what he saw were the mistakes he’d made as a parent. I’d told him about the guilt I was wrestling with and mentioned the pick and how I’d actually considered my own son a suspect.
And at some point, he’d gone and told the sheriff.
“He did what?” Gunnar asked, his voice laced with confusion.
“He said I lied to him. And if I was willing to do it once, I’d probably do it again.”
“Why is he bringing that up now?” Gunnar asked, clearly bewildered. “The case is solved. Jill was responsible. Did he find the drugs?”
“No,” I retorted. “He thinks I’m hiding evidence that might implicate Mack.”
Gunnar’s face registered shock, and I could see him making the connection. “Oh, man,” he muttered, staring down at his coffee. “I’m sorry. I...I must have mentioned it in passing. I ran into him in town a couple of weeks ago, shortly after Christmas, and he asked how Jill was doing. I told him she was in counseling, and how I felt guilty about the role I might have played in what had happened. We got to talking about guilt and I guess I must have said something about you and Luke.” He glanced up at me, his expression contrite. “Actually, I know I did. I told him how I wished I could trust her the way you trusted in Luke.” He swallowed. “I didn’t even think about it being something the sheriff didn’t know. Or that he might use it against you. I’m sorry.”
The sheriff would use anything he could to try to throw me in jail or run me out of town; of that, I was sure.
My anger began to dissipate. I was still upset that Gunnar had talked about something I’d shared in confidence, but I knew that he hadn’t done it to be malicious. He’d actually used the incident to praise me. It was the sheriff who’d decided to interpret it in a way that made me look bad.
Just like he always did.
I sighed. “Apology accepted.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you,” Gunnar said simply. “I hope you know that.”
I forced myself to look at him, and the tenderness in his hazel eyes made my knees turn to jelly.
But I didn’t get the chance to respond because footsteps sounded in the hall, footsteps that sounded like they belonged to more than one person.
I turned, swiveling away from Gunnar, just in time to see Mack approaching, fresh from his shower.
And Declan Murphy was right on his heels.