“I wasn’t arrested for knife stuff.”
“You were arrested for being stupid in public. The knives are collateral for my irritation.”
Whiskey laughs under his breath.
I point at him. “You enjoying this?”
“Deeply.”
Twila turns toward the door. “Out.”
I follow because the only other option is staying, and I need to get home.
Home.
The word hits wrong.
Not the house.
Not the couch.
Not the half-broken porch or the garage full of parts.
Home means Amelia standing in my kitchen with fear in her eyes and August asking whether I’m coming back.
That scares me more than jail.
At the front, I sign papers I don’t read while Whiskey reads them over my shoulder and tells me where to put my initials. Twila watches with her arms crossed. A deputy behind the desk slides my cut toward me like it might bite him.
Smart boy.
I put it on.
Feel more like myself.
Less like myself too.
Because something changed while I sat in that cell. I keep hearing Amelia’s voice.
If you go to jail, he wins.
I did exactly what she feared.
I let Jeremy pull the rope, and I followed it straight to a county cell.
The thought makes me angrier than the cuffs did.
Whiskey walks with me toward the exit. Twila follows because apparently releasing me requires a police escort and moral disapproval.
Outside, the air is wet and sharp with evening rain. Widowmaker is parked near the curb. Oaks stands beside her with his arms crossed, glaring at the world. Legend is leaning against his Harley, phone in one hand, rage held so tight it looks like calm.
He looks at me.
“You done?”
“No.”
“Wrong answer.”