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He shook his head. “This sucks.”
Griffin nodded. “It does. I remember.”
“At least it worked out for you in the end.” Ryder’s voice sounded angry and hostile, but nobody took offense.
“It can still work out,” Sam said.
All three of them turned to look at him. Sam was an enigma, kind of quiet and watchful. Charlie and Ryder never questioned him about it, but he had a sixth sense about things.
Sometimes when they were stuck on a case and the trail seemed dead, they’d come to Sam’s bar and casually bring it up. Seventy-five percent of the time, Sam would drop a single line that would set them on the right path. The rest of the time, he just shrugged and stayed mute.
Ryder knew to listen carefully to what he had to say now, and all his senses went on high alert.
“How?” Ryder asked.
Sam’s eyes narrowed, and a distant look entered his expression. “She just doesn’t see it clearly.”
That made zero sense to him, so he cautiously probed. “Doesn’t see what clearly?”
“Don’t know,” Sam said, unhelpfully. “She’s . . . cloudy. She doesn’t understand.”
“What doesn’t she understand?” His tone was impatient now; he wanted answers to the niggle bothering him.
Sam met his gaze. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to explain it exactly.”
“Well, can you try?”
“She has blinders on, and until she takes them off, she’s only able to see things one way.”
“Is there anything I can do?” The beat of hope pounded in his chest, mixing with the alcohol and making him dizzy.
Sam frowned. “You’re not going to like it.”
“What?” He’d do anything.
Sam sighed. “You have to leave her alone for a little bit. She needs space to sort it out.”
Well, fuck, that sucked.
