Page 93 of Wicked Pickle

“Bailey, no. Family who wants to be lost should stay lost.”

She frowns at my resistance. “If they were abused by family or in danger or bad things are happening at home, sure. But the Pickles aren’t like that.”

I take a step away from her. “I couldn’t disagree with you more. You’re taking away their choices. You’re outing people who want to stay gone.”

Bailey shakes her head fervently. “What if something happens to Grammy Alma? Or their parents? We need to be able to contact them. They can’t stay hidden forever.”

“You’ve made sure of that.” I turn away and race down the stairs.

“Symphony!” she calls, but I ignore her.

I know she lost her mom, and that’s hard. But that’s no reason to make other people’s choices for them. For you to assume you know what’s best.

She’s wrong. I know she’s wrong.

And it’s urgent I warn Diesel. The Pickles will know the location of the bar.

He needs to know what’s coming.

CHAPTER 30

DIESEL

It’s been five days since Symphony warned me that Bailey was going to out the location of the Leaky Skull to the Pickles, but no one has shown up yet. We got through an entire weekend.

Maybe we’re in the clear.

Merrick and I lean on the bar, watching the smattering of patrons drinking on a Monday afternoon. It’s early yet.

A new band, Carnal Depravity, is setting up on the stage. They’re not great, so we said we’d test them on a Monday. Can’t scare too many people off on a day this quiet.

We watch the sluggish trio drag a drum set through the side door. They look haggard and a bit green.

Merrick shakes his head. “When does hiring a band become an actual legal liability?”

“I dunno. We’ve picked some winners lately.”

“I should use a booking agent. Get rid of the riffraff.”

I lug the bag of peanuts from under the bar to fill the random bowls sitting around to keep people thirsty. “Don’t kid yourself. Wearethe riffraff.”

Merrick grunts in agreement.

The front door opens, and I tense like I’ve been doing since Symphony texted me Bailey’s plan.

But it’s Jake coming on shift.

“Hey, boss,” he says, then takes the bag from me to finish the task.

I check the bar fridges to make sure they’re well stocked, bending down to push the bottles around.

That’s why I miss the door opening again.

But Merrick mutters, “Shit,” and kicks my leg.

“What?”

“Get up here.”

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