One drink. Then home.
Then she’d tackle it fresh in the morning.
She pulled out of the lot and headed toward Holy Spirits, the weight of the day heavy in her chest.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Holy Spirits sat at the end of Main Street, its stone facade and peaked roof still unmistakably church-like despite the neon beer signs in the windows. Sam pushed through the heavy wooden doors—original to the building, complete with iron hardware—and stepped into the familiar warmth.
The space still carried its ecclesiastical bones. Long stained glass windows lined both walls, their saints and angels casting colored light across worn floorboards. The bar itself stood where the altar once had, backed by what used to be the choir loft. Some of the original pews had been repurposed into long communal tables, their dark wood scarred by decades of use before the conversion and years of drinks after.
Just a handful of regulars were scattered among the tables tonight, voices low, the atmosphere hushed in the way the building seemed to demand even now.
Sam, Jo, and Kevin made their way to their usual spot—a cluster of mismatched chairs near one of the old confessional booths, now repurposed as a cozy corner alcove. The evening light filtered through the stained glass, painting patterns across Jo’s shoulders as she dropped into her seat.
“Between Nettie’s attack chicken and a body dump, I’d say we earned this,” Jo said, running a hand through her hair.
Sam caught the bartender’s eye and held up three fingers. “Make mine a Moosenose, not that Mooseneck brand you gave me last time.”
Bernadette nodded from behind the altar-turned-bar top, already reaching for their usual.
Jo leaned back, her shoulders tight. “You hear anything from Wyatt?”
“Not since this morning.” Sam watched as Bernadette set their drinks down, her footsteps echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged space. “Thanks.”
Kevin reached for his bottle. “Any idea what’s wrong with his mom? Hope it’s not serious.”
Sam took a slow sip of his beer, thinking back to that morning. Wyatt had acted a little strange, distracted—quiet, a little distant. But if his mom was sick, that would explain it. “He didn’t say. Just that she was sick and needed some medicine.”
Jo wrapped her fingers around her glass but didn’t drink. She nodded slowly, then her hand drifted toward her pocket before she caught herself and pulled it back.
The movement was subtle. Quick. But Sam noticed.
She was holding something back.
He studied her for a moment—the tight set of her shoulders, the way her gaze had gone somewhere else. They didn’t keep secrets from each other. Whatever it was, she’d tell him when she was ready.
Before he could say anything, the heavy doors swung open, bringing a rush of cool air and Mick Gervasi, Sam’s childhood friend and a private investigator that they sometimes used on their cases.
Mick spotted them immediately, his weathered face breaking into a grin. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite law enforcement officers.”
“We’re the only ones who’ll put up with you,” Jo shot back, but she was smiling.
Mick pulled up a chair, settling in like he’d been there all along. “Heard you found our latest addition to the morgue.”
“Yeah.” Sam took another drink. “Medical examiner’s still working.”
“Staged dump,” Jo added. “Whoever did it wanted the body found.”
“Professional job?” Mick asked.
“Looking that way,” Sam said. “We’ll know more tomorrow when forensics comes back.”
Mick leaned back in his chair. “Well, if you need any help from the civilian sector, you know where to find me.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Kevin said with a slight smirk.
Jo’s phone chimed. She glanced at it, a small smile touching her lips. “Bridget needs milk.”