Page 43 of The Worst Possible Plan

“Could’ve happened earlier.” Dave shrugged like he was presenting a perfectly reasonable medical diagnosis. “Head injuries are sneaky.”

Mike studied me another second before dealing the flop, his eyes narrowing the way they always did when he was trying to figure out whether an engine was making a real noise or the customer was imagining things. “I’ve known you for twenty years.”

“Congratulations.” I reached for my beer. “Should I get you a card?”

“You don’t fold ace-king.”

“I just did.”

“Exactly.” Mike pointed a card at me as though he’d uncovered the missing piece of a criminal investigation. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

Another silence settled over the table. The kind only old friends could create, comfortable and dangerous. That sort of silence didn’t need filling because everybody already knew where it was heading. I’d seen juries deliberate faster.

Everybody was thinking the same thing. I could practically hear the gears turning. Folding ace-king wasn’t the problem anymore. It was evidence. They were simply trying to determine what crime had been committed.

Dave finally looked at Mike. “Woman.”

Mike nodded once, far too confidently. “Gotta be a woman.”

Dylan looked at me with exaggerated sympathy, shaking his head. “Poor bastard.”

I sighed, already regretting coming. Somewhere along the way, poker night had turned into everyone sticking their noses into everyone else’s business.

Curt threw a chip into the pot quietly, as though he’d somehow managed to win just often enough that everyone suspected him of cheating, despite the complete lack of evidence. “It’s definitely a woman.”

“There isn’t a woman.” I took another drink of beer, hoping the conversation would die a natural death. It didn’t. Conversations like this never did.

Dave grinned, like he’d just smelled blood in the water. “There it is.”

I exhaled through my nose. “What?”

“The denial.” He pointed his bottle at me like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A.

“I wasn’t denying anything.”

“You literally said, ‘There isn’t a woman.’” Dave looked around the table for support. “Textbook denial.”

“Because there isn’t.” I was beginning to understand why suspects often asked for lawyers even when they were innocent.

Mike folded his hands on the table, his fingers disappearing beneath forearms thick enough to rebuild an engine block. “So…” He let the word hang there just long enough to become irritating. “Who is she?”

“There isn’t a she.” I already didn’t like where this was going. Mostly because I’d completely lost control of where it had already gone.

Dave scratched at his beard and settled back in his chair. “Let’s narrow it down.”

I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck. “No.”

Dave didn’t miss a beat. “She passing through town?”

“No.”

He reached for his beer. “Tourist?”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Divorced?”

“No.”