Page 131 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
Because Buck Sutter is not just a name I’ve seen printed somewhere. He’s the man who called me a sham yesterday.A thief. Same sharp cheekbones gone softer with age, same narrow-set eyes under a brim.
In the photo, he’s a younger man with a hand hooked in his pocket, close enough to William to share a joke. In my bar, he stood three stools down and cut me down with a few words.
“Paige,” I say quietly.
She picks up on it. “What?”
I don’t answer. I trace to the next: Frank Delaney. Guy with the belt buckle in my bar—Delaney—only younger here by forty years, with a collared shirt open at the throat and a great laugh on his face. In the Pint, he set the glass down without taking a drink and accused me of cheating him.
I blow out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Buck Sutter. Frank Delaney,” I say, and tip the photo so she sees what I see. “Those were the guys in my place yesterday.”
She goes still. Her eyes flick between the names, the faces, the picture. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” The kind of sure that lives in your bones. “They’re older now. But it’s them.”
She scans down to the last name. “What about the last guy? Earl Pennington or Alton Mayes?” she reads, glancing up.
I shake my head slowly, looking at their pictures. “I’m not really sure. He was wearing a hat pulled low.”
I can feel my brain trying to paste a hat onto each of the faces. None of them was wearing one in the photo. Doesn’t matter. The pull in my gut is the same.
“I think, maybe this one?” I point to Early Pennington. “But the other guys, Sutter and Delaney. That was them for sure.”
She looks back at William—at his loosened tie, his butcher’s forearms, the way his shoulder tilts toward Eddie. “They were all friends,” she says softly, and then the question slides out before she can dress it up. “So why would they…?”
My mouth goes dry. I run my thumb slowly over the caption. The picture doesn’t answer the question. It’s just proof that all of them were in the same room at the same time at some point. Sutter stands close to my grandfather, and Delaney grins like a fool. Paige’s grandfather is there as well.
“They were all in the same club, at least,” I murmur because the word “friend” feels wrong for whatever this is. “Once.”
Paige sits back and studies the faces like they’re a puzzle with four pieces missing. “Maybe something happened. A falling-out. Money. Pride.”
I look at William again. My grandfather. I want to ask him a dozen questions. I can’t. Did you laugh with these men? Did you hurt them? Did they hurt you? What happened?
“Paige, what if my grandpa stole from them?” I say, turning to her. “They called me a thief, implied that the Hoffman Heritage was, I don’t know, sub-par. What if that’s it? What if my grandpa really is just like my dad and stole the recipe? Passed it off as his own?”
“Wait, wait. Hold on a second,” Paige says, holding her hands up to stop my tirade. “We don’t know any of that. All we know for sure is that they were in some Brewer’s Guild together. That’s it. Don’t jump ahead, okay?”
“But what if I’m selling something that isn’t mine to sell? I have to take it off the menu.” My heart is pounding too fast and too hard. “I can’t—”
“And again, put the damn brakes on. You’re jumping to conclusions.” She reaches over and takes my hand in hers. “Just take a breath, all right? We’ll figure it out.”
My pulse is doing that ugly stutter—like I’m skipping steps on a staircase and waiting for a shin-cracking fall.
“What if I’m the guy selling a lie?” I say, and now the words won’t stop. “What if I built a whole brand around a beer my family doesn’t own, and those men were just—right? I should pull the Heritage, scrap the tap handles, redesign the whole—”
“Ben.” Paige’s voice lands like a palm on my chest—firm, warm, not moving. “Breathe.”
“I am,” I say, not breathing.
She squeezes my hand. “No, you’re not. Inhale.” She inhales slowly, exaggerated. “Hold. Exhale.” She blows out. “Again.”
I’m ridiculous enough to copy her. Air in, hold, air out. The first try barely dents the panic, but the second knocks one notch off the dial. On the third, my shoulders actually drop.
“Good,” she says, softer now. “Now, look at me.”
I do. Her eyes are steady, not judging, not minimizing.
“Fact check time,” she says, tapping the legal pad labeled QUESTIONS. “What do we know?”
