I stopped by the bar's door and placed my hand on Broadrick's chest. "Remember."

"Let you do all the talking," he said with an exaggerated eye roll. "I remember."

I scowled with narrowed eyes at his attitude. He didn't have the experience I did in this department. "And try not to look so much like... a SEAL."

He had that government boy look about him. Tight haircut, bulging arms, put-together appearance. He didn't belong at a shady bar in Clearwater.

Broadrick's lips turned up at the corners with a laugh. "Got it."

"Ugh, just follow my lead," I said and pulled open the door, letting Broadrick walk in before me.

We stopped a few feet inside. The bar had been open for about twenty minutes, but our entrance doubled the occupancy. The other two included the bartender behind the thick bar and the same women I'd talked to on my first visit.

They stopped their conversation and watched as we walked in. There went my plan to sneak in unseen and blend. Since they had definitely made us, I walked right to the bar and grabbed a seat.

The woman from before watched with a slight smile. I think she remembered me too.

"You Carl?" I asked as I slid onto the barstool and leaned against the wood.

He had on a button-up Hawaiian shirt with palm trees all over it and a white bar towel thrown over his shoulder. I couldn't see his pants from my angle, but I pretended he had baggy shorts to match his top.

"Maybe," he said, sounding unimpressed with my moves. "But all my warrants are clean."

See! I glanced back at Broadrick as he stood behind me. It had to be him giving off cop vibes.

"I'm not here for you, but I've got questions about one of your regulars." I tapped the seat beside me and Broadrick sat in it.

Carl chuckled and handed me a dirty menu. "Questions about regulars start at twenty bucks. We don't carry wine."

I crinkled my face at him and then scanned the menu. "Two Cokes and another of what she's having on us."

The woman from before glanced over with a smile and raised her glass in my direction. I nodded. There's no way that two Cokes came to twenty dollars, and she looked like she needed another drink. Her hair had fly-aways at the front of her face, and her jacket hung limply from her shoulders. Someone had had a bad day.

Carl started in on our drinks, and I nudged Broadrick with my elbow. He turned from examining the room from his seat to stare at me.

"What?" he mouthed.

I tilted my head toward Carl as he poured Coke into a glass. "Pay the man."

"But it's a write-off," he whispered with a grin. Then he grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a twenty and a ten, laying them on the bar for Carl.

"Thank you," I said as Carl turned with our drinks. I'd really hoped they come in a bottle or can, but I guess open glasses were okay.

If I wanted to die.

Broadrick wore his dread on his face as Carl set the glass of Coke in front of him. I guess some of Broadrick's germ issues were wearing off on me. Probably from prolonged exposure. Next, I wouldn't want my food touching.

"Thanks," the woman said out loud as Carl passed her a beer mug matching the one she had in her hands.

Once he finished putting Broadrick's money in the register, he turned toward us. "Who you here for?"

"Eric," the woman answered before I even had my mouth open.

I'd been too busy watching a white piece of something float to the top of my glass of Coke. Was it a bubble or... left-over food? Did I want to find out? If I took a fake drink from the glass, would Carl notice and get offended?

Did I risk it?

"Right, Eric. We're here for Eric," I said, wrapping my fingers around the glass but not lifting it.

Carl whistled low and long. "Haven't seen Eric since his dad died."

"Stepdad and murdered," I corrected. We had to make sure we got the story right. "How'd they get along?"

Broadrick brought his glass to his lips and took a sip. Fearless. I watched my white floater as it bobbed up and down, still working its way to the top. I didn't have the same nerves he did, so the glass stayed far away from my mouth.

Carl shrugged at my question. "Eric had a big mouth at times. We all knew when Mick kicked him out after failing that class. He begged his mom to let him back in. Eric was pretty hurt when she said no."

"What did he say about it?" I asked, leaning across the counter and forgetting about the drink.

Carl snorted. "Well, he wasn't fucking happy."

"Did he ever threaten his stepdad?" I asked.

He yanked the towel from his shoulder and used it to clean a spot on the bar in front of him. "Naw."

"Never?" That didn't seem right if he had a big mouth and the bartender heard his family issues.

Carl flung the dishtowel on another spot. "Eric isn't like that. He'll piss and moan, but the kid is a wimp. He'd complain, sure, but he never talked about solving any of his issues. His type pay my light bill every month."

I tapped my fingers on the bar in rhythm to his wiping. That sounded more like the Eric I met on his front porch than the one Frasier described. Did Eric have a secret personality he didn't show to others? Was he a closet evil villain? My stomach tightened. It just didn't mesh.

"Eric wouldn't hurt a fly," the woman said as she sipped her fresh beer.

Carl nodded at her assessment. "He's a good kid. Just needs more friends."

"Or a girlfriend," she threw in around the rim of her mug.

The white floater made it to the top of the glass and popped. I relaxed my shoulders. Thank god. It was only a weird bubble. I grabbed the glass and took a giant sip of the cool, refreshing drink. Broadrick watched me as if I was acting weird, but he hadn't had a Schrödinger's bubble.

I tapped the glass, the little clinks sounding in the quiet bar. The door opened and a new patron walked in. I glanced that way to make sure it wasn't Eric and then slipped from my bar stool. Broadrick followed.

The newcomer had on a denim work suit, and he raised a hand in a wave at Carl. "Give me the usual, bud."

Carl turned his attention from us to prepare the drink.

"Okay." I knocked on the top of the bar twice and nodded a silent thanks toward the woman.

Broadrick followed me out and left me to my thoughts until we were on our way home.

Why was Frasier so sure Eric killed his stepfather? Did they really get into a fistfight? It didn't fit the kid I met on his porch. Still, that didn't mean that behind closed doors Eric didn't have a mean side. We'd all heard the stories before. Devoted son/father/husband/friend loses their crap one night and does something horrible. The ID Channel made their entire yearly earnings off those stories.

We were on the main road back to Pelican Bay before I remembered not to let this chance pass me by. I had Broadrick alone and trapped.

"It's a long drive to Pelican Bay," I said, locking the car door again for good measure.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror and then over at me. "Yeah."

"Is there anything you want to talk about while we have this time together?"