“No.” Avery folded her arms over her chest as she followed him inside.
“I’m getting a beer.” Making himself at home, Ryder switched on lights as he walked back to the kitchen. “Now, spill it.”
“Do you want me to tell him?” Hope suggested when Avery stayed silent.
“No.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I have to. Okay, look, it’s about Sam Freemont.”
“That asshole?”
“Yeah, that asshole. I saw his car outside TTP this morning, before opening.”
Hope studied Ryder as Avery told the story. He didn’t react, just nodded, sipped at his beer. If you weren’t looking closely, she realized, you wouldn’t notice how tight his jaw got, how his eyes chilled.
She’d expected heat—a flash and boom—and found the ice more lethal.
“And I decided Hope was right,” Avery finished. “If—on the off chance, the slim chance I really think—anything happened, I couldn’t stand it. So we were going to tell Beckett.”
“Okay, we’ll take care of it.”
“You’re not going to go beat him up.” Now Avery pulled at her hair. “Not that he doesn’t deserve an ass-kicking for scaring her, but if you do that, she’ll only be more upset. And people are bound to hear about it, and talk about it. Talk about her. She’ll hate that.”
“He doesn’t care about any of that,” Hope observed. “He cares about kicking this jerk’s ass for scaring Clare. And I agree with him, on principle.”
“Common sense and a quick mind for bullshit. Not bad,” Ryder commented.
“In principle. What I’d worry about, and I don’t know this guy, but I’d worry that he’d take it out on Clare. That pounding on him might make the situation worse for her. So you’d have the satisfaction of making him pay, and risk her paying more.”
Ryder took a contemplative pull on his beer. “We’ll take care of it,” he repeated, “one way or the other.”
“Ryder—”
“Avery. You’re a good friend, and you did the right thing, the smart thing. Now you can stop worrying. We’ll look out for Clare.”
They would, Avery thought. Of course they would. “All right. If you get arrested for assault over this, I’ll get your bail.”
“Always good to know. Why don’t you send up a Warrior’s pizza.”
“Sure. Well, okay.”
He waited until they’d gone out to take out his phone. “Need you at Beck’s,” he told Owen. “No, I don’t care what you’re doing.”
He hung up, settled down to wait.
BECKETT JOGGED UP the stairs, light on his feet. Damn good day, he decided—and a most excellent funeral. When Clare got home, she’d called the coffins gruesome little works of art, and he’d earned a very nice chicken dinner.
He decided he’d cap off the very good day with a little work, a little ESPN.
The minute he opened the door, he smelled the pizza.
“Jesus, make yourselves the fuck at home. Is that my beer?”
“It’s ours now. One slice left.” Ryder indicated the pizza box. “If you want it.”
“I had dinner at Clare’s. What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Owen suggested.
He did. “If something was wrong with Mom, you wouldn’t be having pizza and beer, but something’s wrong.”
“Here’s the deal. I found Avery and the brunette at your door earlier. After a little dancing around, Avery told me what she’d come to tell you. Sam Freemont talked himself into the bookstore this morning before Clare opened. He got pushy.”
Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, he got pushy? Be specific.”
“I wasn’t there, but according to Avery, when she looked in—spotted his car outside and decided to check—he had Clare pinned against the counter.”
Beckett got to his feet, slowly. “He put his hands on her?”
“He scared her,” Owen said. “Wouldn’t leave when she told him to leave, wouldn’t back off when she told him to back off. Then Avery pounded on the door, faked like she was calling me over, and he took off. Hold it!” he ordered when Beckett turned back toward the door. “Do you even know where he lives?”
He couldn’t think, not with the red haze in front and in back of his eyes.
“I found his address.” Owen tapped his phone. “But I don’t think going over there and smashing his face into bloody pulp is the best idea.”
“I do,” Ryder put in.
“You would. And if that’s what Beckett wants after we talk this through, well, majority rules, and I’m in.”
“Give me the fucking address.”
“I’ll give you the fucking address after you give me five minutes. If you kick his ass, he’s the type who’ll charge you with assault.”