From an objective observer’s viewpoint, they must appear to be a sad, sorry trio of men.

Hell, from Ledge’s viewpoint they did.

“I miss the old cuss,” Don said of Henry. “Miss his bad jokes.”

“Me too.”

Don turned his head to look at a framed picture hanging on the back bar. “I remember the day he hung that picture of you up there. He was so proud.”

Henry might have put the photograph on proud display, but Ledge hated the damn thing. A buddy of his had taken the picture with his phone as they were preparing for a mission. Ledge had been geared up, face painted, armed to the teeth, looking like a post-apocalyptic badass.

His buddy had emailed him the picture and told him to forward it to his uncle. Maybe he’ll hang it up in his bar. Brag to his customers about his nephew, the scourge of the Taliban.

Ledge raised his glass to his mouth and spoke into it. “He didn’t come back.”

Don came around to him. “Sorry?”

“The guy who took that picture. He didn’t make it home.” Ledge tossed back what was left of the bourbon.

The subject ended there, and each became lost in his own thoughts until Don muttered, “Oh, hell. Look who just sauntered in.”

Before Ledge could turn around and check out the newcomer, he slid onto the stool next to Ledge’s. “Hey there, Don. Ledge. How’s it hanging?”

Ledge kept his expression impassive, but mentally he was swearing a blue streak. This just wasn’t his day. First that unheralded face-to-face with Arden Maxwell. Now he was having to suffer the presence of this son of a bitch.

Rusty Dyle, taking him unaware like this, was grotesquely reminiscent of a Saturday morning twenty years ago.

Spring 2000—Ledge

Friday night had been a raucous one at Burnet’s Bar and Billiards. Ledge and his uncle Henry hadn’t gotten to bed until after three o’clock, when they’d finished sweeping up.

It was a rainy morning, a good one for sleeping in, but Ledge’s seventeen-year-old stomach had growled him awake. Rather than rattle around in the kitchen and wake up his uncle, who needed the shut-eye, he drove into town to the Main Street Diner for breakfast.

He was enjoying his food and the solitude when, without invitation, Rusty Dyle slid into the other side of the booth, snatched a slice of bacon off his plate, bit into it, and crunched noisily.

Ledge’s impulse was to lash out, verbally and physically. But in juvie you learned not to react, no matter what was going on around you. You didn’t take sides in a fight that didn’t involve you. You didn’t provoke a guard who would love nothing better than to be given an excuse to whale into you. You didn’t respond when the shrink asked about your childhood, whether or not you thought you’d gotten a fair shake or had been dealt a shitty hand.

The first time the counselor had asked, Ledge had told him he hadn’t minded his unorthodox childhood at all. He couldn’t miss parents he didn’t even remember. He loved his uncle, who had taken him in and raised him as his own son. He had the highest respect for Henry Burnet.

The counselor had frowned like he didn’t believe a word of it. Ledge saw no point in trying to convince him of what was the solid truth, so he had shut down and made subsequent sessions frustrating for the counselor by not answering a single question. He hadn’t “shared” a goddamn thing with the asshole.

Reticent by nature, he had come out of juvenile detention even less inclined to reveal what he was thinking. That applied especially to his take on Rusty Dyle. Nothing would give the jerk more pleasure than knowing the extent of Ledge’s contempt for him and his spiked-up, red-orange hair.

“Big breakfast there, Ledge. Feeding a hangover?”

“I’m not hung over.” Ledge kept his attention on his short stack and fried eggs.

“Oh, right. It wouldn’t do for you to get caught drinking illegally.” He guffawed and polished off the bacon. “But you are looking a little ragged around the edges this morning. Must be on account of Crystal. She give you a hard ride last night?”

Ledge fantasized jamming his fork into the side of Rusty’s neck, right about where his carotid would be.

“Hell knows she’s good at it,” Rusty said, man-to-man. “When she gets going, that gal can plumb wear you out, can’t she?”

Ledge knew for a fact that Crystal Ivers had never had anything to do with Rusty Dyle, which galled Rusty no end. His taunts were intended to get a rise out of Ledge, goad him into defending Crystal’s honor. The hell he would. Her honor didn’t need defending.

“Piss off, Rusty.”

“You’ll regret saying that when I tell you why I’m here.”

“I don’t care why you’re here.”

“You will. Finish your food.”

Though he’d lost his appetite, he wouldn’t give Rusty the satisfaction of having spoiled his breakfast. He ate. Rusty made meaningless chitchat. When Ledge pushed his empty plate aside, Rusty posed a seemingly irrelevant question.

“How much hard cash do you reckon Welch’s takes in during any given week?”

Ledge looked out the window at the rain, which had increased to a steady downpour. “No idea.”

“Quarter of a mil.”

“Good for the Welches.”

“Know how much it rakes in on a holiday week?” Leaning toward Ledge, he whispered, “At least twice that.”

Welch’s was a family-owned, sprawling warehouse of goods that had weathered the onslaught of big-box store juggernauts because of its loyal customer base. It was also a one-stop shopping outlet for tourists to the lake. The store’s inventory included everything from car jacks to Cracker Jacks, butterfly nets to Aqua Net.

“I’m going to take it.”

While gauging how wet he was likely to get if he made a dash for his car, Ledge had been only half listening. “Take what?”

“Welch’s cash till.”

He turned back to Rusty in time to catch his wink. “You heard right. And I could use a guy like you.”

Ledge listened to the rest of Rusty’s outlandish spiel, believing that he was being set up as the butt of an elaborate practical joke. He even looked around the diner to see if he could spot any of Rusty’s like-minded cronies who were in on the prank and waiting for Rusty’s signal to spring the trap.