All through dinner, Deacon did his best to keep the conversation light. He succeeded for the most part—despite Max occasionally gazing off into space, his thoughts going to the what-ifs of the situation he was in. When that happened, Deacon would tap his arm, shaking his head, then go on to tell another story about the sometimes dubious joys of owning a gun shop. His knack for finding the amusement in his work, and relating it, made Max very glad that Deacon had come into his life. Without him, I’d be curled up in a dark corner, probably praying that Tony would do his worst so this ordeal would finally end.
When they were finished eating and were cleaning up, Jack voiced what Max knew all of them were thinking. “What will the bastard do next, and when?”
“It could go two ways, when it com
