Tucker shouldn’t find that funny. It wasn’t funny. And to be fair to Arlo, Jimmy was known for his lead foot. For damn sure he’d end up wrapped around a tree someday if he didn’t learn to ease up on the gas. But he wished he’d been there to see Jimmy’s face that third time.

“I heard he was thinking of moving to the next county,” Drew added, and they both laughed. Tucker was still laughing when Arlo walked in moments later. He was in his uniform, the limp from his prosthesis barely perceptible as he approached.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, perennially suspicious of anyone having a good time. He sat his ass on the stool next to Drew.

He did resting cop face better than anyone.

“Jimmy Hutchins,” Tucker said.

One corner of Arlo’s mouth hitched upward. “Speeding kills.”

Tucker grinned. “You off the clock? Want a beer?”

Arlo nodded. “Yes, please.”

Tucker grabbed a Bud Light from the long bar fridge set into the back counter because, the reality was, the chief of police was never off the clock in a small town.

“How’s the funeral business?” Arlo asked, twisting the lid off his beer as it was handed over.

Tucker shot Arlo a mock serious look. “I think you mean life-celebration business.”

Arlo laugh-snorted and took a swig of his beer as he looked at Drew. “And you’re what? Some kind of…life celebrant?”

“I prefer afterlife liaison.”

Both Tucker and Arlo lost it at this announcement. “That makes you sound like one of those woo-woo psychic nutjobs,” Arlo finally said when he’d stopped laughing.

“Yeah.” Drew nodded as he took a sip of his beer. “You may have a point.”

Another burst of laughter from the booth had Arlo glancing over his shoulder, spotting his sister. She appeared oblivious to his scrutiny, however, preoccupied with her friends and her phone. “What’s going on over there?” he asked as he turned back around.

Drew, clearly no longer contemplating euphemisms for undertaker, slid a look at Tucker, who tensed and contemplated playing dumb. But the truth was, Arlo was going to find out sooner or later. Maybe it was best for him to be prewarned.

Maybe they could talk Arlo off the ledge preemptively.

Tucker pulled the cloth from his belt and absently wiped the bar top, which did not need wiping. It was such a clichéd barkeep from a Wild West saloon thing to do, but it gave him time to think. After a beat or two, his hand stilled, and he met Arlo’s gaze. “I’m going to tell you something, but you need to stay calm.”

Arlo’s jaw turned to granite. “It’s Jimmy fucking Hutchins, isn’t it?”