The Witness

was doing tonight.”
    “No. He’s escalating. I don’t want to get called out there to deal with one—or both—of their bodies.”
    “Can you do like you said? Make him go to rehab and stuff?”
    “Yeah, I’m going to make sure of it. Officially? What you heard me say to him tonight was the same as you’ve heard me say before. Did he hit Missy, where was she, what was the problem, and so on. You got that?”
    “I got it.”
    “All right, then, I’m going to write it up, have Boyd go on out there to get those witness statements, and check to make sure Missy’s back home.”
    “She’ll come in tomorrow, like always.”
    Yeah, she would, Brooks thought. But this time she’d have to make a different choice. “And I’ll deal with her. You can go on home.”
    “No, sir. I’ll stay here tonight.”
    “You caught it last time.”
    “I’ll stay. You should ice down that jaw. You took a pretty good shot. In the morning, maybe you could bring in some of those sticky buns from the bakery.”
    “I can do that. Fancy coffee, too?”
    “They got that one with the chocolate in it and the whipped cream on top.”
    “I know the one. How’s that shoulder?”
    “It’s not bad. Probably bruise up some, but that’s more weight on it. Tybal’s okay when he’s not drinking. Maybe, if what you did sticks, he’ll be okay.”
    I T TOOK LONGER THAN HE’D HOPED, but Abigail’s lights were still on when he got back to her house. The four Motrin he’d swallowed took the throbbing in his jaw down to an annoying ache. That would’ve been good, but the lessening there made him aware of the few other spots Ty had landed a fist or a boot.
    Should just go home, he told himself as he eased out of the car. He should go home, take an hour-long hot shower, drink two fingers of whiskey and go to bed.
    The whole business with Ty had ruined his mood, anyway.
    He’d just ask her for a rain check, since he’d driven out here.
    She opened the door before he knocked, stood there in that braced and ready way of hers, studying his face.
    “What happened?”
    “Long story.”
    “You need an ice pack,” she said as she stepped back.
    The first time, he thought, she’d let him in without him asking or maneuvering. He went in.
    “It took a while. Sorry.”
    “I did some work.” She and the dog turned, walked back to the kitchen. She opened the freezer, got out an instant cold compress and offered it.
    “People usually go for the frozen peas.”
    “These are more efficient, and less wasteful.”
    He sat, laid it against his jaw. “Get punched in the face often?”
    “No. Do you?”
    “It’s been a while. I forgot how much it fucking hurts. You wouldn’t have any whiskey handy, would you?”
    Saying nothing, she turned to a cupboard. She took out a bottle of Jameson—and right there he wanted to kiss her feet—and poured him two fingers in a thick lowball glass.
    “Thanks.” The first slow sip eased the rawness in his mood. “Anything you don’t have handy?”
    “Things I don’t feel I have any use for.”
    “There you go.”
    “Do you want to tell me the long story?”
    “Honey, I’m from the Ozarks. Long stories are a way of life.”
    “All right.” She got out a second glass, poured more whiskey, and sat.
    “God, you’re a restful woman.”
    “Not really.”
    “Right now you are, and I sure need it.” He sat back, ignoring twinges, and took a slow sip of whiskey. “So, Tybal and Missy. Back in our high school days, they were the golden couple. You know what I’m saying?”
    “They were important in that culture.”
    “King and queen. He was the all-star athlete. Quarterback with magic hands. Center fielder with a bullet arm. She was head cheerleader, pretty as a strawberry parfait. He went to Arkansas State, mostly on an athletic scholarship, and she went along. From what I hear, they sparkled pretty good there, too. Up until junior year, when he messed up his knee on a play. All the talk of him going pro, that blew up. Ended up coming back home. They broke up, got back together, broke up, that sort of thing. Then they got married.”
    He sipped more whiskey. Between that, the Motrin and the restfulness of the woman, he felt better.
    “He coached high school football awhile, but it didn’t go well. He didn’t have the wiring for it, I guess. So he went to work in construction.Missy, she tried some modeling, but that didn’t work out. She works at the Flower Pot. They never prepared, I’m