The Edge

Chapter 68

“You want to look through my grandfather’s things?” asked Annie Palmer.

Devine was sitting at the counter in Maine Brew, and she was standing across from him restocking the refrigerated cabinets.

“Yeah.”

“Why?

“To see if I can find a reason for what happened.”

“He was depressed, Travis. Depressed people sometimes kill themselves.”

“Granted. But I’m not sure he took his own life.”

“You mentioned that before, when we were up on the roof at Jocelyn Point with Alex, but you never bothered to explain to me why you thought that,” she said. Her face twisted in anger. “Even though you told me you would. And we both saw him fucking hanging there.”

“Okay, it’s time for me to lay out my theory for you. Better yet, I’ll show you.” Devine stood, walked over to one of the tables, grabbed a chair, and brought it back behind the counter.

“What are you doing?” she said, staring at the chair.

The place was still relatively empty at this hour, although the cook in back and two waitresses were readying the place for the morning crowd that would be arriving soon.

“Proving a point,” he replied.

He climbed onto the chair and then stood on his tippy-toes while she stared goggle-eyed at him. He reached up and gripped a metal pipe that was attached to the ceiling.

“What the hell are you doing?” exclaimed Palmer.

Next, Devine tried to kick the chair away while still standing on it. To do so he had to partially lift himself off it and kick at the chair back and seat. He made several spirited attempts, flailing some, before finally managing it on his fourth try.

He dropped to the floor, a little out of breath with the exertion, and righted the chair.

“Now, I’m thirty-two, a former Army Ranger, I work out all the time.”

She stared at the chair and then back at him.

He continued, “Now what if I had a fused spine, bad knees, a pair of wrecked hips, oh, and I’m about fifty years older. And one more thing: I didn’t have a noose around my neck choking me to death at the time. And the noose that was used? I’d have a hard time fashioning it and I don’t have arthritis in my fingers.”

Palmer stared at Devine for a few moments before she plopped into the chair and drew a long breath. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Shit. Someone killed him.”

“I believe they did, yes.”

She stood, marched over to the counter, opened a drawer, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them to Devine.

“These are to my grandfather’s place. Find the son of a bitch who did this,” she said.

“I plan to,” replied Devine.