That worries me.
Crying I can understand. Crying is a wound making noise. This is worse. She looks like she has gone somewhere inside herself where Jeremy already knows the way.
I want to drag him out of her by the throat.
Legend stands across the table, face carved hard, my front door at his back. Oaks is near the window, watching the road. Whiskey has the note in a plastic bag because apparently my house now has evidence handling protocols before supper. Wildcat is at the counter with the box, gloves on, checking seams, tape, paper, anything that might tell us where it came from.
Royal is leaned against the wall by the hallway, black as a funeral thought, silent as one too.
Too many Kings in my house.
Not enough blood on my hands.
“Wasn’t left by the mailman. Only made to look like it. Got them on camera. Whoever left it knew the gap,” Wildcat says.
My head turns. “What gap?”
“The road watch shifted at four-twenty. What I can figure is there was two minutes between one prospect moving and the other taking position. Not enough for a stranger unless he already knew where to go.”
Oaks’s mouth tightens. “Or unless somebody distracted them.”
Legend looks at Whiskey.
Whiskey’s jaw works. “Checking calls now.”
I laugh once.
Not funny.
Not close.
“We got men on the road, cameras, locks, eyes, and some church rat still walked up to my porch and left a toy for the kid.”
No one answers because there is no answer that fixes it.
Amelia flinches at toy for the kid.
I hate myself for saying it that way.
I hate Jeremy more.
Legend looks at me. “Prospects also moved when Amelia took the truck.”
“They followed me?” she asks, glaring at me.
I hold up my hands. “Not on my orders.”
Legend cuts in. “On mine.” He points to me. “You don’t leave this house hot.”
I stare at him.
“Prez.”
His eyes narrow. “You heard me.”
“I heard a suggestion dressed up like an order.”
“It’s an order.”