Page 30 of Breaking His Exile

Lyle stared at him, stone-faced, like he didn’t understand the question. But his gaze shifted to the men playing pool.

Yeah, he knew exactly what happened. He was just too afraid or too smart to talk about it.

X glanced at the pool players.

Fuck.

Sons of Sin. They weren’t wearing cuts, but they were definitely part of the club. Probably sent to make sure Lyle and all the other witnesses kept backing their version of events.

“So you just watched?” River growled. “A room full of people and you—what, wiped your glasses while three bikers cornered a woman? While a man who just stabbed someone dragged her out the back? And nobody moved? Nobody picked up a goddamn phone for twenty-two minutes?”

“River.” X stepped in front of him.

River didn't hear him. He'd rounded on the room now, on the pool table, the bikers gone still. “She weighs a buck twenty soaking wet. She plays guitar for gas money.” His voice climbed, cracking at the edges. “And every one of you sat here and let it happen and then got your story straight for the police. That's what I'm hearing. You all decided together what you saw.”

Lyle’s good eye narrowed. “Who the hell’s this?”

“Nobody.” X got a hand on him. Both hands, one on his shoulder and one flat on his chest, turning him, putting his own body between River and the bar. “My buddy’s just real invested in true crime.”

River opened his mouth again, but X squeezed his shoulder.

“Cállate,” he hissed. Then he gave Lyle the easy smile that got him out of most of the trouble he’d gotten into in his life. “Can I ask about the bar’s name?” He motioned to the sign over the door. “It’s spelled wrong. Right Marshal? Only supposed to have one L.”

Brandt stared at him like he thought X had lost his mind, but answered, “Yes, two Ls make it a name, not a law enforcement title.”

“Been wrong for damn near a hundred and forty years, Marshal-with-one-L. Don’t see a reason to fix it now.” Lyle looked at River a beat longer, and his expression slammed closed like a till drawer. He set the glass down, and when he spoke again it was to Brandt, flatter than before. “And like I said. I told the county deputies what I saw. You asking again now’s not changing any damn thing.”

Brandt nodded, picked up his badge, and started for the door. “Thank you for your time.”

“What?” River demanded. “That’s it? You’re just⁠—”

Brandt shot him a shut the fuck up glare with his uncanny blue eyes, then swung back to the bar. “I do have one more question, if you don’t mind? The 911 call came in after midnight from your bar’s landline. But according to three witnesses, the altercation happened somewhere between 11:35 and 11:45. That’s twenty-two minutes between a man bleeding out on your floor and someone picking up the phone. Why the delay?”

“Place was chaos. Took a minute to get to the phone.”

“Twenty-two minutes is more than a minute, Mr. Ferris.”

“I don’t clock these things, Marshal. Someone called when someone called.”

River exploded. “He’s fucking lying!”

X caught him around the chest and hauled him backward off his feet, boots scraping over the warped floorboards. River thrashed, all elbows and fury, and X had to lock his arms tight just to keep him from breaking free and launching himself at Lyle.

“Let me go,” River snarled.

“Not a chance, pendejo.”

The whole bar had gone quiet. The old-timers stared. The men near the pool table straightened and set their cues down, leaving their hands loose at their sides to reach for concealed weapons

This place was a power keg

And River was determined to be the match.

Brandt hadn’t moved from the bar. He stood with one hand flat on the wood, the other loose at his side, and his eyes were on Lyle. Not on River. Not on the men by the pool table. On Lyle, who was watching the pool table with his good eye.

“Get him outside,” Brandt said, and his voice was calm, almost bored. “Now.”

X didn’t need to be told twice. He shoved River through the door and into the gravel lot, and the sunlight hit them both like a slap.