Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Matt carefully picks a shard of glass off the counter and tosses it into an open garbage can in the corner. “Heard they’re idling PEC.”
“Shit.” The engineered-wood mill has operated in the area since the 1980s. It employs at least two hundred and fifty people, including Benoit. “Do you know why?”
“Same old. It’s too expensive to keep it running. Something like that.”
“Another one bites the dust.” It’s becoming a common story around these parts, mills and factories shuttering their doors. “This is not good.” Christmas holidays are less than three months away and that’s a lot of local people out of work. A twinge of guilt stirs for pushing the steep tickets on the guy.
“Benoit driven into the loving arms of Canadian Club is never good,” Matt agrees. “What’s his wife gonna do this time?”
“Yell at him, like she does every other time.” My officers have visited his address more than once to find Margaret throwing his belongings out the window as she screamed.
She always takes him back.
“Our camera out front is busted, but Shawna saw him driving in, if you need that for your report.” He nods toward the blond waitress nearby, cleaning up the broken glass.
“Again with the cameras?” Half of the Bale House’s security system is inoperable at any given time.
Matt shrugs. “What can I say? Little shitheads throwing rocks. I can’t keep up with replacing them anymore. I thought once they opened that arcade, kids would have somethin’ better to do, but nope.”
Shawna hisses and studies her finger, searching for her injury.
“Here, let me do that. Don’t want those hands of yours cut up.” He collects the broom and dustpan from her grasp. “Get a Band-Aid and then table ten looks like they want to cash out.”
“On it, Matty.” She sashays to the back, sucking on her finger.
“Those hands of yours?” I mock. “What else has she been doing with them? Huh, Matty?”
He chuckles. “Don’t start. She’s a consenting adult. Twenty-five.”
“That’s an improvement.” The last one was twenty-two. Then again, Matt easily passes for a decade younger than his forty years.
“It’s not my fault!” he exclaims, sweeping up the mess behind the counter.
“Yeah, you’re too good-looking for these poor girls to resist.”
“Exactly. What am I supposed to do?”
“Not every staff member.”
“Come on, now. It’s only been two. Or three.” He pauses his task to flash that cocky grin of his.
I can’t help but laugh. Yes, I’ll admit Matt Danes is attractive, with his bright blue eyes and dimpled smile, his deep voice, and country-boy style—always in jeans and a plaid button-down, with a ball cap pulled low. I swear, I think half the women who come to the Bale House are here for a chance to flirt with the handsome owner. One girls’ night out a few years back, after too many tequilas and feeling especially low, his charm almost worked on me.
“You want a beer? On the house for your troubles,” he offers.
I shoot him a look—I’m in uniform, for god’s sake—and then I survey the small crowd. “Nice to be here when it’s quiet.” Most times we’re called when it’s bustling and loud and someone’s bleeding in the parking lot from a well-placed fist.
The Bale House Tavern and Inn is perfectly situated on the mostly two-lane Trans-Canada Highway that serves as the main artery to some of Northern Ontario’s largest cities.
The inn is little more than a tiny motel—a strip of three rooms off one side of the building. On the other side and around back is a massive gravel clearing where truckers can park for the night and come in for a hot meal. Many of them are regulars, planning their route so they can stop here.
The place has evolved since Matt took over six years ago. It’s now a weekend hot spot for Cold River and neighboring towns. Saturday nights are always hopping with a mix of barely legal nineteen-year-olds to gray-haired barflies, here for the live band and buoyant atmosphere. Sometimes it gets a little too rowdy, and my officers end up paying a visit.
“What are you doing answering calls, anyway?” Matt eyes the gold crown and chevrons on my shoulder. “Doesn’t the big boss stay behind a desk and take weekends off?”
“My platoon sergeant’s daughter had a dance recital and our relief constables have been working a lot lately. Besides, I like to get out every so often. Keeps me better connected to the community.” Something my dad always insisted on doing too.
That it’s a viable excuse for avoiding Logan’s homecoming party has nothing to do with it.
“Connected to violent drunks like Benny the Hulk?” Matt sets aside his broom and begins the task of cutting lemons and limes for tonight’s rush. Surely there’s still glass on the floor, but he seems content to keep me company.
“Drunks, hooligans with spray paint.”