The Butcher by Jennifer Hillier Page B

then blank. It was like someone had turned the lights off inside.
    Greg Bonner was dead.
    Edward exhaled. Quietly, he rested Bonner’s cane on the floor beside him, then turned and headed back to his room.
    He felt so much better. It wasn’t quite enough, but it would have to do. For now.

7
    Was it so hard not to be a dick? Sometimes Sam wondered. And then wondered about herself that she put up with it.
    Adobo was bustling, typical for a Saturday night, and there were a dozen or so patrons waiting at the entrance for their tables. The bar area was even busier, and Sam squeezed in between a redheaded beauty and her much older husband. The husband gave Sam a lingering look as his wife ignored him in favor of her iPhone.
    She recognized the bartender but couldn’t remember his name. Smiling, he gave her a wink. “Hey, Sam. Usual?”
    â€œPlease.” She smiled with pleasure. As Matt’s girlfriend, she was always treated well here. The Adobo staff always went out of their way to make sure she had whatever she wanted, and she couldn’t deny she enjoyed it. Her mojito—extra simple syrup, extra mint—was ready in two minutes while others around her waited impatiently for their drinks. The bartender slid it over with a grin.
    â€œThanks,” she said. “What do I owe you?”
    The bartender gave her a look. “As if.”
    She slipped him a five-dollar bill, anyway. “At least let me tip you. Matt around?”
    Another look, but this time it was an expression Sam couldn’t read. “Yeah, he’s out back. I’d wait a few minutes, though. I heard he was cussing someone out.”
    â€œReally? Who?”
    He shrugged, throwing a dish towel over one shoulder as he wiped down the bar with a washcloth. “Wait’ll you see. If he’s getting in trouble, we’re all in trouble. What I will tell you is that the dude got into a fender bender on the way here, which made him almost an hour late, and I’m sure you know how Matt is about punctuality. He’s not being very understanding about it.”
    â€œI do know, but . . . you’re kidding. It was a car accident.”
    The bartender leaned in. “You didn’t hear this from me, but the boss has been in one helluva shit mood the last few days. Screaming at everyone, difficult to talk to. Everyone’s been tiptoeing around him and nobody wants to set him off. Any idea what’s going on with him?”
    Sam hesitated, not sure what she could say. She didn’t know anything, and it made her feel stupid. “I’m sure it’s just stress.”
    â€œWhat does he have to be stressed about? This place is kicking ass, the food trucks are making mad money, and he’s going to be on a reality show. The guy’s about to blow up.” The bartender stopped, his face reddening. “Oh shit. I shouldn’t talk about it. You’re his girlfriend.”
    Sam downed her mojito and patted his arm. “We’ll keep it between us. Thanks for the drink.”
    She maneuvered her way through the busy restaurant with its cappuccino walls, distressed wood tables, and cream leather chairs. Matthad done a great job of creating a warm and cozy, yet slightly upscale, ambience. Adobo had been open for less than two years, and thanks to the popularity of the food trucks strategically placed at all the big farmers’ markets and food fairs around the greater Seattle area, the restaurant had become quite successful. Pretty impressive considering how competitive the Seattle food business was.
    Adobo was a tribute to Matt’s Filipino grandmother’s cuisine, and had long been her boyfriend’s dream.
    She ordinarily wouldn’t drop in this close to the dinner rush, but Sam hadn’t heard from Matt in almost two days. He hadn’t returned her calls or texts, and while Sam was trying not to take it personally, she was irritated. The whole world didn’t