Page 69 of Kings of Sherwood

Taylor’s eyes are glued to Maren. “So do you have a favorite?”

“Um...”

I suddenly getveryabsorbed in my margarita.

“Youhaveto,” Grace says, finally taking a sip of her own drink. “Right?”

I am not here. I am not witness to this conversation. I am dead, shuffled off this mortal coil.

Maren chews her lip. She glances at me—which I obviously don’t notice, not at all—and looks back at the girls with a shrug.

“God, I love guacamole.” Mackenzie, my new favorite person, is blissfully unaware of the conversation happening around her, too intent on scooping a bite out of the bowl. “I could eat guacamole every day for the rest of my life.”

“Ew, no you couldn’t,” Taylor says. “You’d get sick of it.”

“Or you’d get fat,” Grace puts in.

“Avocados are healthy fat,” Mackenzie says, around a mouthful of guac. She swallows. “I could too.”

Maren and I briefly lock eyes. But, of course, she beats me to the punch.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Maren says. “Like look, I love me some guac too. But sometimes I’m in more of a...French Onion dip mood, you know?” She lifts a shoulder. “Not the guac’s fault. The guac is still delicious. I stilllovethe guac. I will go to town on that shit, generally speaking. But right then, I just want something different.”

“Oh,” Grace says, eyes wide and nodding at Maren like she’s imparting some kind of sage wisdom. “Oh.”

“Or maybe I don’t want anything salty at all,” Maren goes on. “Maybe I need some of those little cookies you can dip in frosting, or whatever.”

“Dunkaroos?” Mackenzie says, coaxing a small boulder of guacamole onto a chip. “Those were myshitin elementary school.”

“Yeah,” Maren says, barely able to contain her grin. “Those. Or, you know.” She shrugs again, ever so innocent. “Maybe I want some guacandfrosting, mixed together. Just to experiment. Double teaming, you know?”

I choke on my margarita salt.

“That sounds gross.” Mackenzie wrinkles her nose, chomping down the rest of her chip.

“No It Does Not.” Taylor speaks in short, declarative syllables while fixing me me with a look that could only be calledpredatory.

I gulp.

“So you ladies are all in college around here?” I all but squeak, desperate for a change of topic.

“Yes,” they say in unison.

“Unfortunately,” Mackenzie adds. She throws down her chip and sighs. “Sorry, sorry. I was the one complaining that other people think this place is a shithole, and now I’m doing the same thing.”

“Okay, but it’s notevena shithole,” Grace says. “You know Ashley? Getting her nursing degree?” She slurps margarita. “She volunteers at the VA Hospital and said that the other day the vending machine just started giving people money. Or, not, like, money, but a bunch of cash cards. Like someone had put them in there as a nice gesture. Made this old guy literally cry.”

“See?” Mackenzie says. “How come stuff like that never goes viral? It’s always thefreaky cult murdersandarmed robberiesand—”

“It’sourshithole, at least,” Maren interrupts.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say. But as I lift my glass, my blood goes chilly.

Because across the patio are two guys in beige.

Deputies.

Grace is the first one to notice my stare, and follows my gaze. She, for whatever reason,alsogoes pale.

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