Evie’s waitress had offered a tip-friendly smile when she ordered. Over the next forty-five minutes, Evie had received five coffee and two water refills. She had gone to the restroom twice. She was so hungry her stomach hurt, but she did not want to eat in front of these men in fear that she might vomit. One of the men she was waiting for she had never met. She had once held a knife to the other one’s neck in his own home. To this day, she wished she had followed up on the threat and swiped the blade across his fleshy throat.
Finally, two men entered the diner. They both smiled when they saw Evie. She took a breath and placed her trembling hands beneath the table where the men could not see them. Evie did not fear the men because of what they could do to her. She feared them because of what they had promised to do to people she loved.
The one approaching on Evie’s left was about five foot seven, 240 pounds, with shoulders so wide and thick a skateboard could rest across them. His walk was more of a side-to-side lurch, like a wrecking ball at the end of a wire.
The one on her right was six foot five, willowy thin, his gray-brown hair parted as if by machete. He moved with a kind of grace that reminded Evie of shades rustling near an open window. Viewed from behind, you would assume the men were strangers, perhaps having struck up a friendship after having met by chance at a bar. But from the front, one look at the sharp, intelligent yet malevolent hazel eyes, the thin noses, and the pursed lips, and you would know immediately that despite the difference in size, they shared the same blood.
The tall man slid into the booth across from Evie. She felt his knees press up against hers. The shorter man slid in next to her, his meaty arm forcing her uncomfortably into the side of the booth. The tall man’s knees held her in place from one side. The shorter man’s bulk held her from the other. She was trapped.
“Long time,” the shorter one said.
Evie said nothing.
“Ms. Boggs,” the tall man said. “Thank you for coming.”
“It’s not like you gave me a choice,” Evie said. “Besides, you’re late.”
“No. We arrived exactly when we meant to,” the tall one said. “My name is Randall. I know you’ve . . . met . . . my brother, Raymond.”
The shorter man, Raymond, took Evie’s coffee cup, swallowed the dregs, then placed it back in front of her.
“Too much cream,” he said.
“You’re free to get your own,” she said. “On me.”
“I like my coffee the way I like my money,” Raymond said.
“How’s that?” Evie said.
“Taken from someone else,” Raymond responded, taking a sip of Evie’s water.
“You guys should go on tour. But I really hope you didn’t ask me here just to take my beverages. They do have Uber Eats in Ashby.”
“I like her,” Raymond said with a smile, a dribble of water leaking from his mouth and sliding down his chin.
“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full,” Evie said. “If you recall, I almost gave you another mouth, about six inches below that one. Maybe I should have.”
Raymond smiled. “I was wondering if she would still be feisty.”
“And if you don’t give us more information,” Randall said, “the next thing in your mouth will be a palm full of your son’s hair after I tear it from his head.”
Bile rose in Evie’s stomach. She tasted it in her throat.
“You don’t need to make threats. I’m here. I’m cooperating.” Evie dug her nails into her knuckles, anger and fear and adrenaline coursing through her.
“So cooperate. What have you learned about the current predicament?” Randall asked.
“I’ve only been in town two days,” Evie replied. “I’ve told you everything I’ve learned.”
“And that is not nearly enough. We cannot have people looking into our business.”
“They wouldn’t be looking into your business if you were better about keeping your business quiet.”
Randall ignored the comment and said, “Have you learned who is investigating the untimely death of our friend Mr. Linklater?”
Evie took out her cell phone, opened the photo app, and scrolled through seventeen photographs.
“Detectives John Serrano and Leslie Tally of the Ashby Police Department. They’re officially working the Linklater murder. They’ve been interviewing all of Linklater’s colleagues and associates.”
“Are they capable?” Randall asked.
“Seems so,” said Evie.
Raymond frowned and looked at his brother. Something seemed to pass between them that did not require words.
Randall shook his head.
“No. Disappearing the detectives will only draw more suspicion and law enforcement participation.”
Raymond seemed disappointed by his brother’s response.
“What do you know about these particular police?” Randall said.
“A bit,” Evie replied. “It’s a small enough city that people talk. I’ve put together files from public documents—newspapers, city council meetings.”
“You can send it to Mr. Brice,” Randall said.
Evie nodded.
“You really shouldn’t use so much cream in your coffee,” Raymond said. “It masks the natural flavor of the beans.”
“This is a joke, right?” Evie said. “You came to lecture me on coffee prep?”
“She’s very combative,” Randall said.
“Very combative,” Raymond added.
“She does not have very much foresight,” Randall said. “Given what we know about her.”
“No, she does not,” Raymond said.
“Enough,” Evie said, sighing. “Sitting with you two is like watching Gossip Girl with a brain injury. Anyway, digging up dirt on cops is not easy. Make too much noise and people notice, word gets around, and the cops circle the wagons. And if I get on the cops’ radar, then guess what? You guys are on their radar. I would assume you’d prefer to stay beneath their radar.”
“That would be preferable,” Randall said.
“Most preferable,” Raymond replied.
“Highly preferable.”
“Ugh. I need a Xanax and a crowbar to the face talking to you two,” Evie said.
“In the event that you cannot get much closer to the police,” Randall said, “what is your plan to stay ahead of this?”
“The woman Matthew Linklater wrote the day he died.”
“Rachel Marin,” Randall said.
“Right. I know her. I mean I know her.”
Raymond raised his eyebrows.
“Not in that way, you stubby trouser stain. But we have a past.”
“Is Mr. Brice aware of this?” Randall asked.
Evie nodded. “Apparently she does some work with the police, but she’s not actually police.”
“And why would she speak with you?” Randall said.
“Let’s just say I have some leverage over her.”
“Leverage?”
“I know certain things she would prefer to keep quiet.”
“This sounds like an ideal situation,” Randall said. “Leverage can be more powerful than an army.”
“Yes, it can,” Raymond replied.