Inside, written in black marker, the ink bled at the edges, are seven words.
Families belong to God, not outlaws.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
The kitchen tilts.
My hand tightens around the bulletin so hard the damp paper bends.
“They mean August,” I whisper.
Derby’s voice is low. “They mean all of us.”
All of us.
The words strike deep.
Not you and the kid.
Not Amelia and August.
Us.
He hears himself at the same time I do. I see it in his face. A flicker of surprise. Then a wall slamming down because feeling walked out in the open without permission.
“Where was this?” I ask.
“On Widowmaker.”
“When?”
“Last night. After you went to bed.”
“And you didn’t wake me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because August was asleep. You were asleep. And whoever left it was gone.”
“Derby.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah, I know. I watched Legend and Sophie tear each other open over secrets, then shoved one in my pocket like an idiot.”
The anger in me falters.
Not gone.
But changed by the fact that he names it himself.
He drags a hand over his head. “My first instinct is handle it. Always. See threat, step between, deal with it. Tell people later if they need to know.”
“I need to know.”