Page 52 of Kings of Sherwood

“Don’t get any ideas,” he says, pointing at me right between the eyes. “My bloodline dies with me.” He turns on his heel,faces a display shelf, and blows out a breath. “You know what the most-shoplifted item in drugstores is?”

I follow his gaze to the shelf of pastel-colored cans standing at attention behind a plexiglass barrier. A notice by the keyhole reads LOSS PREVENTION - PLEASE ASK FOR ASSISTANCE. “Baby formula?” I guess.

Will nods, pulling a slim leather case out of his pants pocket. “And what does that say about the health of our society?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just flicks open the case and produces what looks like a handful of dental tools—lockpicks, I realize. In two seconds he’s jimmied the thing open and popping open the plastic lids, just enough to slip a thin card underneath, on top of the foil seal. Works fast, keeps his head down, shuts the barrier again. Walks away, quick and purposeful.

“Aren’t you going to...” I whisper-shout at his back as he leaves. He swivels.

“What?”

I look back at the shelf. The barrier hanging open. Then back at Will.

“Lock it back up?” he finishes for me. He shakes his head. “No, Maren,” he says softly. “I’m not.”

Right, I realize. Of course not.

I don’t speak again until we’re back in the car.

“Why not take this stuff to food banks?” I ask. “Soup kitchens? Places that, you know...exist to help?”

Will shrugs, eyes on the rearview as he pulls us out. “We used to. Back in the early days. But it’s too many questions. Always want to know where it came from, who to thank, give you forms to fill out so they can report it for tax or grant purposes.” He shakes his head. “Paper trail’s not worth the risk.” He puts the car in gear and steps on the gas. “Besides, no one’s too proudto get a checkup or go shopping or get a book for their kid. But plenty of people would rather starve than go to a food pantry.”

We’re looping back around the east side to our next stop—a laundromat—when we see it. Or hear it, actually: shouting, sharp and ugly, cutting through the otherwise sleepy morning haze.

Half a block from the laundromat, two guys in cheap jumpsuits are yelling at a woman who looks like she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a decade. Her car’s half up on a tow truck ramp, and she’s talking fast, desperately, all but pulling at the guys’ sleeves to get them to stop.

Will mutters something and swerves back to the center of the road. “We’ll have to come back. We could—”

“Stop the car,” I interrupt. I know those guys—or the uniforms, at least. Used to deal with them all the time at the shop: repo men, and sleazy ones.

Will glances at me. “Maren, we can’t get involved in—”

“Will,” I all but spit. “Stop. The. Car.”

He mutters something about reckless women and bad decisions but pulls over anyway.

I don’t exactly have a plan, but it doesn’t end up mattering. By the time we jog across the street, someone else is already on it.

Tall. Confident. Familiar form in a worn khaki shirt, flashing a badge as he breaks up the mess.

“Is that—” Will mutters, cocking his head with just the faintest groan as he jogs in behind me.

“Yep,” I confirm.

Zayn.

He’s got the two repo thugs backed off with nothing but words and a glare, and appears to be talking them down—I can’t make out exactly what he’s saying, but his tone sounds calm but firm. The guys snarl and swear, but ultimately give up,and unhitch her car as Zayn watches. He crouches a bit, says something to her, earning him a shaky smile and a laugh, and hands her a card as the repo guys squeal away in their truck. When he stands up again, he turns—and sees us.

There’s a pause. The kind where you can practically hear theoh, shithanging in the air.

“Well,” Zayn says, dry as dust. “You’re lucky I didn’t have to arrest you two again.”

“Still on the right side of the law, then?” Will says. I throw a light kick back at his shin—cool it, dragon boy.

Zayn just shrugs. “More or less. Department’s broke, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“We have,” I say. “But they’re still giving you shifts?”

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