Eli considered the question before answering. She liked that tendency in him, although she supposed it might be frustrating at times. “In towns the size of the Creek,” he finally replied, “every death gets noticed because everybody knows everybody else. Since the human brain always looks for patterns, it’s easy enough to group them into threes and call it a phenomenon.”

“I suppose this means you walk under ladders and refuse to throw salt over your shoulder when you spill it,” Brynne teased.

He grinned, pushed back his chair, took his plate in one hand and tossed Festus a scrap of bacon. “I like to walk on the wild side,” he told her. “If a black cat crosses my path, I just keep going. Straight ahead—that’s the only direction I travel in, Bailey.”

With that, he carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it, along with the silverware he’d used and dropped the works into the dishwasher.

Straight ahead. That’s the only direction I travel in.

“No going back?” she asked, very quietly.

He came to her, bent and kissed her forehead, then her mouth. “Everything worthwhile is out ahead,” he said. “Not behind.”

With that, he found his car keys, summoned his dog and headed for the door.

Brynne wanted to say so many things in that moment—Don’t go—be careful—I love you.

But her vocal chords wouldn’t cooperate.

“This will probably be another long day,” Eli told her, in parting. “I’ll check in later.”

Brynne could only nod. If she’d spoken, she would have pleaded with him to stay there, with her, and let Wild Horse County fend for itself.

Of course, he would have refused. He had a job to do, and he took it very seriously.

He left.

Brynne remembered then that she had a job to do as well, and it was time she got started.

She fed Waldo, who was willing to descend from his upholstered mountain now that Festus was gone, tidied the kitchen and retreated to her bathroom for a shower.

Half an hour later, she was downstairs.

Frank, the breakfast cook, was filling orders as fast as Miranda, working solo, could take and serve them.

“So,” Miranda remarked, with a twinkle, “Sheriff Garrett’s truck was parked out back when I came to work this morning.”

Brynne, reverting to childhood when she’d been constantly underfoot in the restaurant, according to her mother and Miranda, put out her tongue.

“You and Eli?”

“It was a robbery,” Brynne said, keeping a straight face. “Fortunately, no one got hurt.”

“A robbery, was it?” Miranda teased. “What was taken?”

“None of your business,” Brynne responded.

Since the customers were busy rehashing the latest development—Freddie Lansing’s suicide—no one picked up on the little exchange.

Speculation ran rampant: some said Freddie and the dead girl, Tiffany-something, had been dating.