Then he smooths it away. “Then I appreciate your assistance. Amelia has been under stress. Her mother’s death was difficult on her, and she sometimes makes impulsive decisions. I’m sure she made this sound dramatic.”
The rain taps steady on leather and gravel.
Nobody speaks for a second.
Because the bastard is smart.
He doesn’t call her crazy. Not right away. He dresses the word up nice.
Stress.
Difficult.
Impulsive.
Dramatic.
I’ve known men who could put a woman in the ground with less vocabulary.
Legend turns his head slightly toward me, just enough to tell me to hold.
I do.
Barely.
“She can tell us herself what she wants,” Legend says.
Jeremy smiles sadly. “Can she? Or is she surrounded by armed men telling her what to say?”
Royal chuckles softly.
That makes Jeremy’s eyes shift to him.
Bad choice.
Royal smiles wider, all black hair, black clothes, and dead poet eyes. “If we were telling her what to say, she’d sound less frightened and more entertaining.”
Jeremy’s polite mask thins. “I don’t know who you people think you are, but this is kidnapping.”
Oaks laughs.
Not because it’s funny.
Because the word is bold as hell at our gate.
“Fucker,” Oaks says, “you might want to look up the definition of walking through a gate because you’re scared of your husband.”
Jeremy’s eyes cut to him. “And you might want to consider how this looks to law enforcement.”
Whiskey finally steps forward. “Law enforcement in Paducah? Or the cousin in dispatch you called before driving here?”
Jeremy goes still.
My grin widens.
There you are.
Whiskey doesn’t look up from his phone. “Or maybe the friend who ran her old phone location after she ditched it outside Richmond. Sloppy, by the way. If you’re going to abuse access, you should at least pretend you didn’t.”