I turned when I heard Bear’s phone sound with a text message. He stared at the screen for several moments before he looked up with a furrowed brow.
“Is something wrong?”
“Uh, no,” he started. “Spazz is requesting more information, and to be perfectly honest, it’s a little invasive.”
I shrugged. “I don’t have anything to hide.”
He shook his head and held his phone out for me to see.
Spazz:Whose grave was she visiting?
“Oh,” I said, understanding why he didn’t want to ask. “I don’t mind answering that, or any other questions about him. We were visiting Brinkley’s father and my late husband, Russell Moore.”
He typed a message and placed his phone on the counter, giving me his full attention. “How long’s it been?”
“A little over four years.”
“May I ask what happened?” he asked cautiously.
I nodded and cleared my throat. I didn’t mind talking about Russell, but I hadn’t shared that particular story in a long time. “One night after dinner, he said he didn’t feel good and went to bed early. He got worse as the night went on, and we eventually went to the hospital. They said he needed to have his appendix removed and started getting him ready for surgery. When they took him back, they sent me to the waiting room. I’d only been in there for maybe fifteen minutes when they came out to get me. He had a reaction to the anesthesia and died before the surgery was even started.”
Bear reached across the counter and placed his hand on top of mine, squeezing gently and giving me the strength to go on.
“It completely blindsided me. The possibility of becoming a widow at the age of twenty-three never crossed my mind. I don’t think I would’ve gotten through it if it weren’t for Brinkley.”
“How old was she when you lost him?”
“I found out I was pregnant with her two weeks after Russell died.” I looked down and shook my head. “I wanted to start having kids right after we got married, but Russell thought we should wait a few years. So we’d just started trying for a baby the month before.”
“Damn,” he said softly.
“Would you like another cup?” I asked and reached for his empty mug before he had a chance to answer.
I needed a moment to get the emotions I’d inadvertently stirred up under control. But his next words had me turning back to face him.
“I was released from prison nine months ago, after serving sixteen years for killing the man who murdered my wife.”
“Why would you go to prison? Weren’t you defending her?”
Without an ounce of shame or hesitation, he kept his eyes on mine and said, “No, I was avenging her. I knew who did it when I found her. I hunted him down and tortured him for three days. Then, I killed him.”
I’m not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting from me, but it clearly wasn’t the one he got.
“You should’ve killed him as soon as you found him and then tortured him. If the wounds were postmortem, you would’ve been charged with body desecration instead of torture and still would have had the same level of satisfaction. Then, you likely could’ve used temporary insanity as a defense for the murder charge.”
He tilted his head to the side and stared at me for several seconds before finally saying, “Since you’re obviously not bothered by my past, I’ll ask my other question. Why do you know that?”
I pointed to his leather vest. “You’re a Blackwing. You wouldn’t be one if you weren’t a good man. As for the other, I listen to podcasts about court cases when I have trouble sleeping.”
“How often is that?”
“Not as often as it used to be but still more than I’d like.”
“My daughter-in-law makes this stuff called angel milk when she can’t sleep. It’s nothing special; just warm milk, sugar, and a splash of vanilla extract.”
“Thank you,” I smiled. “I’ll have to try that sometime.”
“You got nothing to lose, because even if it doesn’t work, it still tastes really good.”