Gabe pulled a hand down his face, wondering how long he’d dozed off while reading Monroe’s blog. He’d managed to get through dozens of posts before he’d run out of steam, but it was enough to have him shaking his head in disbelief.
The man was completely delusional. He’d read his fair share of rants about the government and law enforcement—some of them even well supported by evidence and incredibly persuasive. He could see how people already frustrated and discontent could buy into what these groups were saying. But Monroe… The guy was a fucking nutjob. And the people following him and leaving comments were just as crazy.
The bullshit he was spewing was so far beyond a run-of-the-mill conspiracy theory that Gabe half expected to see the guy walking down the street with a foil hat one of these days. But his followers were bordering on the fanatical. Given a few more years to recruit, Jeb Monroe could easily reach cult status.
Gabe yawned and stretched, then got to his feet and grabbed one of his crutches, intending to make his way to his bedroom and collapse onto the bed when his doorbell rang.
He frowned and glanced at his watch again. It was just past seven o’clock. Who the hell would be dropping by at this time of morning?
Gabe grabbed his gun from the desk, where he’d set it the night before, and tucked it into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back before heading to his front door. He carefully peered through the peephole and let out a relieved sigh. He quickly disengaged his alarm and unlocked the door.
“Tom?” he said, surprised to find his brother standing on his doorstep. “What are you doing here?”
Tom gestured with the cardboard drink carrier he had in his hand. “Brought you coffee. Thought you might need it.”
“Uh, yeah,” Gabe said. “Thanks. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Tom grunted. “Figured as much.”
Gabe stepped aside. “Come on in. Have you had any breakfast?”
“Nah,” Tom said, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll make you something. What’ll it be? Cocoa Puffs or Froot Loops?”
Gabe chuckled. “I see your culinary skills haven’t improved since we were kids.”
Tom gave him a hint of a grin, which was about all anyone got out of the guy these days. “Yeah, well, I never claimed to be a god in the kitchen.”
“So many comebacks, so little time, Bro,” Gabe said, shaking his head. “I’m going to take pity on your sorry ass because you brought me coffee and let that one go unanswered.”
Tom sent a wry glance over his shoulder as he grabbed cereal bowls from the cabinet. “You must be tired. You’ve never missed the chance to be a smart-ass.”
Gabe eased down into a chair and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I was reading through Jeb Monroe’s blog. That guy scares the shit out of me, I don’t mind admitting.”
“You and me both.” Tom set a bowl in front of Gabe and took the seat across from him.
Elle’s seat.
Gabe pushed that thought away as soon as it occurred. One dinner didn’t mean anything. She’d needed someone to talk to. That was all it was—and probably a little pity thrown in for good measure.
He forced his thoughts back to his brother, who was wolfing down his cereal like a man on a mission. Tom wasn’t especially communicative anyway, but he was particularly closed off that morning.
“How you holdin’ up?” Gabe asked.
This brought Tom’s head up. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You killed a man,” Gabe said. “That’s not something you just shrug off, Tom.”
Tom swallowed slowly, then took a gulp of his coffee before he finally managed to meet Gabe’s gaze. “I’m dealing.”
“I don’t think I ever said thank you for saving my ass,” Gabe said.
Tom shrugged and managed another half grin. “I’ve been saving your ass for thirty-six years. Just add this one to the grand total. Now, eat your cereal, loser. I have to get to work.”
Gabe lifted his spoon in mock salute, then scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, sending a covert glance Tom’s way as he ate. If the dark circles under his brother’s eyes were any indication, he hadn’t slept much better than Gabe.
Of course, he had a feeling Tom’s sleeplessness had started before the shooting of Mark Monroe. But he wasn’t going to bring up the subject of Tom’s deceased wife. His brother would come to him if he wanted to talk. That’s the way it’d always been. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be there for him when it came to the shooting.
“Mark Monroe knew what he was doing when he showed up at the courthouse,” Gabe said around a mouthful of cereal. “You know that, right?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah.”