Chapter Four

      Wednesday, 11:00 a.m.

      “But before I do that,” she said, “I have to talk to my kids. Chief Poole said he might need to question them.”

      Bray picked up a sugar packet. Set it down. “He’s doing his job. A man is missing. A cop. He needs to turn over every rock that he can.”

      “But they’re my rocks. My baby rocks,” she said.

      She would be the kind of mother who would protect her children with her last breath. “They might know something and not even realize it. You might, too,” he said, his tone suggestive. “Tell me about your ex.”

      “I’ve got customers to wait on,” she said, clearly not interested in his suggestion. He understood. He really didn’t want to talk about the son of a bitch, either. There weren’t many that could make the claim, but Gary Blake had bested Bray, in all the ways it counted. Reason enough to hate him.

      If Blake was screwing around somewhere, oblivious to the concern he’d left behind, dismissive of the blow his children would bear when they heard he was missing, well, Bray was going to hand him his lunch, and the guy would need a blender and a straw to eat it. “What time does Trish come in to relieve you?”

      “Normally at two and works until nine. But it’s Thanksgiving eve, so we’re not open tonight. The café will close at two today and reopen at six on Friday morning. And with any luck, Gary will come in for his coffee to go at eight thirty, just like every other day.”

      “You’re still going to talk to your kids today?”

      She nodded. “I have to pick them up at Trish’s. She’s babysitting. I know I need to do this but I’m not sure what to tell them.”

      “The truth. But maybe not the whole truth.”

      She let out a huff. “That’s my specialty,” she said in a disgusted tone. Then she walked away.

      What the hell did she mean by that? Bray contemplated that question for the next three hours as he sat on the stool. Summer stopped filling his coffee cup and generally ignored him until he flagged her down and ordered a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich for lunch. She hadn’t said a word when she’d slid the plate in his direction, but it didn’t escape his notice that she’d remembered to add a side of mayonnaise so that he could dip his French fries.

      Finally, ten minutes after she’d put the closed sign in the window, all the other customers were gone except him. “I’m going with you when you talk to your children,” he said.

      “They don’t know you.”

      “I’m not going for them. I’m going for you.”

      That shut her up. She got out the vacuum and plugged it in. He grabbed it out of her hand. “Let me help,” he said. “You can get out of here faster.”

      It had been driving him crazy for the past three hours watching her literally fly around the room. Taking orders, clearing tables, making pot after pot of coffee, taking cash at the register up front. He’d wanted to jump in and help but had known that would spread like wildfire through the small town. The fact that he’d been sitting at the counter for an extended period probably already had tongues wagging. He’d recognized a few people from his high school days. Had nodded at one or two, but nobody had approached to engage in conversation.

      After the floor had been vacuumed and the counters wiped down, and she’d rolled a tray of clean silverware into white napkins, Summer excused herself to use the restroom. Seconds later, the cook pushed through the swinging door.

      “Who are you?” he asked, his voice flat.

      “Bray Hollister.” He’d been gone a long time, but he was pretty good with faces. He didn’t think he’d ever met this man. He was probably midfifties, slight build but wiry, with hair pulled back into a ponytail like Bray. However, his was much longer and almost black. His face had several scars, none of which he’d got from working behind a grill. “Who are you?” Bray asked.

      “That’s not important. What’s important is that you understand that Summer and Trish Wright are special to me. If you mess with them, you mess with me. And that would be a mistake on your part.”

      Most people wouldn’t even attempt to intimidate Bray. But this guy was a natural. Bray appreciated his intensity and willingness to take him on.

      He was glad that this man was in Summer’s corner. “I don’t intend to mess with either of them. I’m an old friend.” Bray heard the bathroom door open.

      “I’ll be watching you,” Milo said.

      “All finished?” Summer asked the cook.

      “Thirty minutes. Then I’m out of here.”

      “Don’t work too late,” she said. “Uh, Milo, this is Bray Hollister. He used to live in Ravesville. Bray, Milo Hernandez. Best grill cook this side of the Mississippi.”

      If she noticed the stillness between the two men, she ignored it. “Milo, I have something to tell you.”

      The cook looked at Bray.

      “He can stay,” Summer said. “He knows.”

      And in a very controlled way, Summer told the man about her conversation with Chief Poole, the suspicions that foul play might be involved. His expression never changed.

      “The chief asked me to keep this quiet, but I wanted you to know,” she said. “You’re like family.”

      “What can I do to help?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “Keep your ears open. If you hear anything, call me right away.” She gave the man a quick hug. Over her shoulder, he made eye contact with Bray.

      “I’ve got this,” Bray mouthed.

      The man gave a sharp nod. “Call me if you need me, Summer.” He went back into the kitchen.

      “He’s something,” Bray said.

      “He was a godsend,” she said quietly. “He arrived in Ravesville just weeks after Rafe’s death.” She looked at him. “You may not know. Trish was married. To Rafe Roper. He wasn’t from around here. But he worked construction, and when they built the new mall near Hamerton, he rented a house near here. Trish fell hard and fast, and they got married just months after he arrived in town. But sadly, just nine months later, he went on a float trip, you know the kind, with inner tubes and coolers of beer. Somehow he got separated from his buddies and drowned.”

      “Poor