It focuses.
That is better.
He looks back at Whiskey. “Find everything.”
“Already digging.”
“Quietly until I say otherwise.”
Whiskey nods. “Vale has a cousin in county dispatch and a friend in the sheriff’s office outside Paducah. Nothing local to Paradise County yet, but that don’t mean much.”
“Sheriff Dix?” I ask.
“Not tied yet,” Whiskey says.
Good.
I like Sheriff Dix as much as one can like a lawman who spends half his life pretending he doesn’t know what the Kings are doing. His daughter Twila is another matter. Sharp-eyed, stubborn, and too comfortable staring men down. Whiskey never says much about her when her name comes up, which is exactly why I notice.
“Tell Dix nothing yet,” Legend says.
Whiskey’s mouth curves. “Wasn’t planning to invite law to the family reunion.”
Family reunion.
The words settle wrong.
Or maybe too right.
Legend looks at the photo again.
His face goes still.
The room gives him space without meaning to. Even Royal looks away. That’s how grief works with men like this. They will watch a fight, watch blood, watch a body lowered into the dirt. But personal grief makes them act like eye contact is rude. The bikers go about their business giving us privacy.
I don’t look away.
“You can say it,” I tell him.
Legend’s eyes stay on the photo. “Say what?”
“That you’re angry at him.”
He laughs once, harsh and quiet. “Soph, that ain’t new.”
“No. This is different.”
He picks up the photograph, holding it by the edges. “He had a whole life out there.”
“Yes.”
“A woman in Oregon. Maybe a daughter. Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Either way, she grew up without him.”
I step closer. “Yes.”