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That baby-faced, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, life-destroying sonofabitch.

He smirks; I roll my eyes.

My hand wraps around my fork and I squeeze it so tightly my knuckles go white.

“Good to see you, Scotty.”

I drop the fork in my hand and exchange it for my whiskey, taking a long sip. When he adds, “You look good,” I finish it.

My eyes cut to his. “Yourbossknow you’re out trolling for women?”

He raises his eyebrows, amused. “You jealous?”

I drop my forearms on the bar and straighten my spine, looking him square in the eyes that always seem to be smiling. “Fucktoseintolerant, actually.” Before he can respond: “Are you following me? I see you everywhere.”

“It’s a small town, Scotty,” he argues through a laugh. “Of course you see me everywhere. I’m a cop. It’s part of the job. You want me to give you my schedule so you can avoid me forever?”

I force a too-big smile. “Actually, yes. Thanks for offering.”

He fixes his gaze on me, expression teetering between solemn and hopeful. “Would it fix what I did?”

At the absurdity of his question, I laugh, loud. Like there’s any way tofixwhat he’s done or change his lifetime role as a silent star in the Scotty Armstrong shitshow. “Unless you plan on getting hit by a bus, Ford, there’s not a shitsicle’s chance in hell tofixwhat you did.”

A laugh-likepah!puffs out of him. “So you’re going to hate me forever?”

Our history hangs between us like a thick fog in a mountain valley.

“That’s the plan,” I tell him as he takes a swig of his club soda, his eyebrows raising as he watches me watch him. Pissing me off. “Why are you here?”

“To eat.” He crunches on another piece of ice.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

“I mean in Ledger,” I huff. “Why are you back? You were gone for over twenty years. Why don’t you crawl back to whatever holeyou came from and go back to sucking souls like a good little dementor?”

He snorts. “Still got the tongue of a viper, I see. And there weren’t enough birds.” He looks at me, sizing me up, before adding, “And the company wasn’t nearly as good.”

Even though his lips aren’t smiling, one of the many annoying qualities about Ford Callahan and his now slightly bearded baby face is that his eyes always are. His mouth always curving just enough to make you wonder if he just finished laughing. Like he can’t not be happy.

If I were a cat, I’d claw his pretty face.

“And, what, you get clean and become a cop?” His smug look is replaced by a slack jaw.Ha!“Guilty conscience,Officer Callahan?”

“What?” He slowly sets his drink down. “The hell you talking about, Scotty?”

I snort a non-humorous laugh. When I first ran into Ford a few months ago, it was fortunate for me it was at a boxing ring where I hit him until my arms hurt. After that, I always imagined we would unload all this on each other, but Liberty Tap was not where I pictured it. Actually, the fiery pits of hell seemed more fitting, but as I’m not one to shy away from any battle, the most popular restaurant in Ledger will do just fine.

I fold my hands on the bar, looking at him with steely determination. “As I recall, you and my brother decided to burglarize a house—for drug money—and when the cops showed up, you let him take the blame while you blasted out of this town and neverlooked back. Meanwhile, he died—along with my dad—and you were nowhere to be found.”

The hurt on his face would hurt me if I harbored a heart or shred of sympathy.

“That’s not what happened.”

Liar.