Her hand is pressed to her mouth. I look away. Then I ride.
Oaks and Wildcat follow in the club truck because somebody decided we needed to look less like a murder parade. They fail. There is no version of Oaks and Wildcat in a truck behind me that looks like civic responsibility. We hit the road toward Paradise, and I let Widowmaker stretch just enough to keep from vibrating out of my skin.
We stop at the farm supply store outside Paradise when Whiskey calls with a location.
“Courthouse. He has a meeting with someone in family services in twenty minutes.”
Family services.
The words land exactly where Jeremy wants them.
My hands flex.
Oaks steps closer. “Derby.”
“He’s already moving on custody.”
“We don’t know that,” Whiskey says through the phone.
“He’s at family services after sending a toy to August. We know.”
Another pause.
Then Whiskey, quieter. “Twila is already on the road. She heard the same thing through her side.”
“Good.”
“Not good. She said if you touch him, she arrests you.”
I smile.
“Then she better drive fast.”
I hang up.
Oaks curses. “Prez said no moving without his call.”
“Call him.”
“Derby.”
“Call him from the truck.”
I’m on Widowmaker before he can grab me.
The ride to the county building ain’t long.
It feels shorter because rage eats distance.
By the time I pull in, the sky has turned darker, clouds low and greenish at the edges. The building is beige brick and glass, the kind of place where cruelty puts on khakis and signsforms. A flag snaps out front. People go in and out carrying folders, diaper bags, coffee cups, and all the quiet tragedies government buildings collect before lunch.
Jeremy Vale stands near the side entrance.
Clean suit. Neat hair. One hand in his pocket. Phone to his ear. When he sees me, he ends the call.
No fear.
That is his mistake.