“Maybe.”
Oaks studies him. “You okay?”
Men ask that like they hope the answer is no, because no gives them something to hit.
Legend don’t answer.
Oaks nods anyway.
“I’ll keep outside locked down,” he says. “If Vale comes, he won’t stroll in.”
That should comfort me.
Instead, the hair on the back of my neck rises.
Maybe because everyone keeps saying if.
Maybe because women know when a man is coming long before headlights appear.
I look toward the front windows. Rain streaks the glass black. The yard lights make everything beyond the gate look slick and unreal.
Behind me, Whiskey’s phone buzzes.
He picks it up, listens, and his face changes.
Not much.
Enough.
Legend sees it. “What?”
Whiskey lowers the phone. “Vale’s card was used forty minutes ago.”
“Where?” Legend asks.
“Gas station outside Official.” He means Paradise County.
The room goes quiet.
“How far?” I ask, though I already know from the look on Whiskey’s face.
“Twenty minutes,” he says.
The clubhouse shifts.
No laughter now.
Just men becoming weapons in increments.
Legend’s voice is flat. “He knows.”
I think of Amelia upstairs, curled around August in borrowed clothes. The locked door. The lamp left on low. The way she asked if she’d have to leave if blood did not save her.
“No,” I say.
Everyone looks at me.
Legend’s eyes narrow. “No what?”