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He’d worried all afternoon that this was another way to lure him away from his brothers—but what choice did he have? He sure as hell wasn’t going to bring them with him. And whoever set this meeting had implied that Michael could bring anyone he wanted—including the police.
Was that an extension of trust? Or a finely laid trap?
Maybe he should have involved the police. Hannah’s father was still waiting to talk to him. Michael pulled the fire marshal’s card out of his jeans pocket—now washed, though soot still stained the seams—and considered dialing.
Then he remembered the photo of Hannah and James on the school steps.
This was too close to home, for all of them. He wasn’t putting anyone else in danger if he didn’t have to.
Michael shoved his phone back in his pocket and circled around to the front of the building. Some older guys in layered flannel held the door for him on their way out. Jukebox music hit him hard when he crossed the threshold. He’d expected a simple bar with a few tables, but the place was bigger than it looked from the outside. A polished wood bar stretched across the rear of the restaurant, tended by an aging man with tufts of white hair. Swinging doors led to a kitchen beyond. A middle-aged waitress burst through them with a tray of steaming plates: gravy fries, nachos, Buffalo chicken wings. Bar food. At least eighteen tables crowded the open area, and all were occupied. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and Michael’s boots crunched through them as he stepped out of the doorway.
His eyes swept the room once. Dim lighting didn’t reveal much, and several people had their backs to him, but no one looked suspicious. Everyone seemed engaged, whether in food or a conversation. Mostly men over thirty, mostly blue collar, in for a quick drink or a dinner before heading home for the night. Flannel and denim everywhere. Laughter and loud voices carried over the music.
The waitress stopped in front of him on her way between tables, and he was so keyed up that for a second, he worried this forty-year-old frizzy-haired woman was his mystery person. Then she gave him a puzzled look and said, “It’s seat yourself, sweetie.”
He cast his gaze past her, at the bar, and then back to the door. “I don’t—I’m meeting someone—”
“What’s wrong, Merrick? Run out of lawns to mow?”
He recognized the voice, but with the noise and the low lighting, it took him a minute to spot its owner. About three tables over, with his back to the door, sat Tyler Morgan.
Tyler. Tyler.
You’ll know when me when you see me.
Michael stormed between patrons. He hadn’t thought Tyler was behind this. Not really. But now, with proof right in front of him . . .
He slammed his hand down on Tyler’s table. It took everything he had not to drag the guy out of his chair and slug him in the face. “You think you’re going to mess with my family?” He hit the table again, and he must have looked fierce, because Tyler shoved back a few inches. Michael got in his face. He was yelling and he didn’t care. “You think I’m going to let you get away with it?”
Tyler didn’t move. “Get out of my face, Merrick.”
“Those people. All those people. You—”
“What people?” Tyler glared back at him. “Did you forget your medication or something?”
“You know what people.” Michael shoved him, causing the chair to scrape back a few more inches.
Tyler gritted his teeth, but he didn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you think this is funny?” He was causing a scene, but Michael didn’t care. That Tyler would do this—that he would make jokes—that he could—his neighbors had died—
“What is your problem, Merrick?”
“You’re my problem! Did you do this? Did you start those fires?”
Tyler’s expression darkened. He didn’t move from his chair. “Look,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “I don’t know what you’re on, but if you don’t sit down and act like a normal person, Tammy is going to call the cops.”
Michael stared at him. The restaurant had gone silent except for the jukebox still cranking out tunes in the corner. Four men were standing nearby, ready to come to Tyler’s aid. The waitress—Tammy? —had a phone in her hand, and she was looking at Tyler, as if waiting for him to tell her what to do.
Michael’s breathing echoed in his ears.
Tyler raised an eyebrow. “Sit down and behave, or leave, Merrick. Your call.”
Michael swallowed. He felt like he’d run a mile at top speed. “Did you text me to meet you here?”
“No.”
“Don’t you f**k with me, Tyler—”
