Reckoning and Ruin by Tina Whittle

saw the swing of headlights—a silver convertible backing out of the lot. Gabriella, choosing for once to stay out of his life.
    I took him by the elbow and dragged him into the corner. “Well?”
    He didn’t take his eyes off Hope. “I heard her story.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œIt’s problematic.”
    â€œNo kidding.” I motioned toward his forehead. “How well does your cranial lie detector function on oxy?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œThen we should probably find out.”
    Trey refocused his attention on me. I was a clever and practiced liar, but I had yet to succeed against his super-sensitive frontal lobes. My brother had explained it using neurology lingo—what Trey had lost in the accident was the white-lie shield that the rest of us used to negotiate social environments. Normal brains could ignore a tiny untruth. Trey’s brain couldn’t.
    I tried to keep my expression blank. “All I had to eat for lunch was a family-size bag of kettle corn and a beer.”
    He tracked his gaze over my mouth. “True. And foolish. You need protein to—”
    â€œGreat. You passed.” I spun him around and propelled him toward the front. “Now get in there and…wait a second.”
    I moved my hand across the small of his back, then pulled his windbreaker open, revealing his old department-issue S&W in a hip carry holster. He’d had to give up side carry after the accident, so when he’d started at Phoenix, he’d traded up to a custom-made shoulder holster, doctor’s orders. And yet there he was, side-armed and dangerous again.
    I put my hands on my hips. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be wearing a holster.”
    â€œGabriella meant the shoulder rig.”
    â€œNo, she meant—”
    He pushed past me into the room. “I know what she meant.”
    I stifled the urge to snatch him back as he positioned himself right in front of Hope. She regarded him with the feral look of a prey animal about to bolt, and for a second, I wished she would. That would solve most of my problems at the moment. But it would leave the larger problems still lurking.
    Her testimony was crucial in the upcoming trial. We had security camera footage from that night, but as Garrity had pointed out, all it had shown was Trey shooting Jasper three times. The necessary background of that encounter—why Hope was in danger, why Jasper was that danger, and why Trey had had to use almost-deadly force to protect her—rested with our various testimonies. But our statements needed context, and Hope—reluctant, wary, and now terrified—was that context.
    She held out her wrists toward Trey. “Did you bring the handcuffs? Or maybe you want to frisk me first?”
    He ignored her. “Is that your car out front?”
    â€œYou know it is.”
    â€œDid you come alone?”
    â€œYou know I did.”
    Trey moved closer, about six inches too close for comfort. Hope flinched, then tried to cover it. I sympathized. When Trey put you in his sights, it took a mighty amount of discipline to stay still.
    â€œTell me what happened,” he said. “From the beginning.”
    Hope retold the tale again, with no variation. Trey asked specific questions—times and places and dates. I could see the cop coming out in him, wanting to get the details down. Despite his time in corporate America, he remained a patrol officer in his heart, with an invisible badge on his chest.
    â€œAnd you had no contact with John after he dropped you off?” he said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo texts? No phone calls?”
    â€œDo you think I’d be here, in her shop, talking to you , if I had?”
    Trey didn’t take his eyes off her face. “Was your husband involved in any illegal activities?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œFive months behind bars was enough. I learned my