“You okay?” he asks.
No.
“Yes.”
His eyes narrow.
“Later,” I whisper.
His jaw works, but he nods.
Legend holds out his hand. “Come on.”
We leave the old jail in tense silence.
Lottie stays behind.
So does the weight of what she confessed.
Derby walks beside me but not too close, like he knows if he touches me now I might either cling or shove. Legend leads us outside to his truck. We drive only a few minutes, out past the main road, toward a stretch of Kings-controlled land I had seen from a distance but never visited. Not the clubhouse. Not Derby’s place. A little tucked-away lot near trees, close enough that bikes could reach it fast, far enough that it feels separate.
A trailer sits there.
Not fancy.
But not falling apart either.
White with blue trim, small porch, gravel drive, two planters by the steps even though nothing is planted in them yet. The windows are clean. The grass is cut. A little shed sits out back. Beyond it, a line of trees gives privacy without isolation.
My throat tightens before I understand why.
Legend parks and turns off the truck.
Nobody moves for a second.
Then he gets out.
Derby opens my door but steps back, letting me climb down on my own. That small bit of space matters more than it should.
Legend walks to the porch and waits.
I follow slowly.
“This yours?” I ask.
“It belongs to the club,” he says.
Then he turns and holds out the keys.
“Now it’s yours.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“Yours to use. Yours to lock. Yours to leave. Yours to tell us to stay out of.”
Derby is very still behind me.