Knowlton had driven to the hospital and given James a lift back to the shop. A cigarette dangling from his lip as he drove, Bobby had said, “I’d tell you to fire Jardine’s ass, but that wouldn’t look good right now, him being in the hospital and all, with him yellin’ that he was gonna sue ya? But he’s been slackin’ for a while now. Came in late today, did ya know that? Looked tired as hell and kind of beat up, as if he’d been out all night boozin’ or whatever.” Bobby had sent James a knowing look as he’d turned into the lane to the shop. “And it’s not the first time. But . . .” He’d shrugged, smoke swirling around him in the old Silverado’s cab. “All things considered, you can’t can him. Not now. Jesus, what an idiot. Most people are more careful around whirling blades than Jardine. It’s like the guy has a death wish or wants to be able to sue you and collect disability or whatever.” He squashed the butt of his Marlboro in the ashtray. “Like I said, if I were you, and I ain’t, I know, but I’d take the next opportunity to shit-can his ass.”

Too late for that now, James thought. Gus Jardine had run the tile saw through his hand, ripping through muscles and tendons and nearly slicing off two fingers, which might have to be amputated, and there was talk of nerve damage.

A nightmare.

And an accident that could have been avoided if Jardine had followed the safety practices that were not only written in the handbook, but posted on the job site and that were simply commonsense.

Surely, he wouldn’t have injured himself on purpose, as Leon had suggested. What kind of nutjob would take his chances with an electric saw?

James swore under his breath as he refilled Ralph’s water dish, then opened a fresh can of dog food, added some kibbles from a container on the counter, and set the bowl on the back porch.

Before Jardine had been carted into the ER, he’d been screaming that he would sue James. Instead of worrying about healing, Gus had been focused on a lawsuit, and he seemed hell-bent on making James pay.

James couldn’t help thinking that there was more at play than the accident, that Gus was pissed about James’s breakup with Jennifer, which had happened a while ago. Still, there was something there.

He walked back to the front of the house, where, in the living room, pillows had been placed strategically on his couch. On the other side of the staircase, fresh flowers had been arranged on his dining room table, new bottles of his favorite scotch gleamed on the sideboard, and the glass in the windows was clearer than it had been in months.