Pawnbroker: A Thriller by Jerry Hatchett

better. Now can I go back to sleep?”
    “No, not until you tell me the truth.”
    “There’s nothing to tell, Gray.” Her tone was icy, fully awake now. She yanked the cover up around her neck and rolled over so that her back was to me.
    “Whatever you say.” I’m not by nature a mean person, but at that moment I wanted to hurt her. I switched off the lamp. “By the way, you might want to call Lucy Knight tomorrow.”
    “Why?”
    “Bobby was killed in a car wreck tonight.”
    She sprang upright. “What?”
    “Squaw Hill.”
    She was still sitting up in bed. I switched the lamp back on and saw tears rolling off her face, which was screwed up in this horrible look of pain. “Night, sweetie,” I said, then switched the lamp off and burrowed into my pillow.

 
    Chapter 32
     
     
     
    W hen I left home the next morning, the girls were still asleep. Abby was up but didn’t speak. Nor did I. I went to Hatley’s, aiming to drown my sorrows in caffeine and grease. I waited until eight for Teddy, and when he didn’t show I ordered three eggs over medium, bacon, butter-laden grits, and a couple of fresh homemade biscuits split open and drenched in sausage gravy. My arteries undoubtedly paid a price, but it was a wonderful experience nonetheless. As I was walking out, Teddy was walking in.
    “All your fault,” he said, pointing to his hungover face. His eyes were red and puffy, and he hadn’t shaved. “Had no choice but to drink for the both of us.”
    I smiled, clapped him on the back. “You’ll survive.”
    I stepped out onto the sidewalk, and something occurred to me. I turned around. “Say, Teddy, let’s take the back booth. I need to talk to you about something.”
    “Sure,” he said with a yawn.
    After we were seated and I was sure no one was in eavesdropping range, I got right to the point. “Did you know about Abby and Bobby Knight?”
    The answer was important, not because he might have information I needed. I knew they were guilty and call me weird, but I didn’t want a bunch of details. It was important because I saw it as a barometer of just how trustworthy a friend he was. Through his myriad businesses—not to mention his wife, the nosiest gossipmonger in the county—Teddy Abraham knew everything that happened in Montello.
    He looked at me for a couple seconds, then dropped his head.
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.
    “Hell, Gray, how do you tell your best friend something like that?”
    “Opening your mouth and telling the truth would’ve been a good start, old friend.” It’s fair to say I spat the last two words at him.
    “Sounds real good. But let me tell you something, Sport, the one who tells is the one who loses in the end.”
    I hate it when Teddy calls me Sport. That’s his lecture mode, a signal certain that he’s about to unleash a fount of Teddy Wisdom.
    “Coffee!” he bellowed at the room in general. Around the diner, heads turned our way. Louise brought a steaming pot and two cups that she filled and quickly left. Teddy stared at the table, took a few sips, then looked up and continued, quietly.
    “Real world, Gray, here’s how it goes down ninety percent of the time. I say, ‘Gray, Abby’s...uh...how do I put this...seeing...your buddy Bobby Knight. I thought you should know.’”
    I drew a breath to respond, but he held up a hand. “No, let me finish. First, you’re all grateful, glad to have a friend looking out for you. You confront her, she eventually admits it, promises she’ll never do it again, it never meant anything in the first place, she can’t believe she did something like that, blah yada puke.”
    A few more sips of coffee, then he continued, “Then you forgive her, you’re all lovey-dovey, and who’s the enemy? Me. The one who dared say something like that about your dear bride. Won’t matter that it was true, you see. Nope, simple reality is she’ll see me as a low-life snitch. You, being the loyal husband, decide it would be best