Page 5 of Wilde's End
I lie. “Nah. It’s just a house.” But I’m whispering too, like I’m worried speaking too loudly will disrupt it. “Besides, Hart’s alone. Surely a murderer would go for easy prey first.”
Kennedy stops suddenly. “Should we check on him?”
“He’sfine,” I insist, but now that I’ve said that, my subconscious is getting paranoid. Logically, I know there’s a slim chance some random killer would be hanging out in the middle of nowhere waiting for us to show up, but … “If you want to go and check on him, I promise not to laugh too much.” Because I’d sort of like to go and check on him myself.
“Promise not to laughat all?”
I take a moment so it looks like I’m thinking about it. “That’s a big ask. But maybe this once, I’ll let it slide.”
Kennedy leads the way outside again, and leaving the stuffy house behind doesn’t help to dissolve the way the hairs on my arms are prickling to attention. I cast my gaze around, from window to window, one side of the street to the next, and then finally, up the tree-covered hill that rises slowly behind the houses.
It’s as abandoned as we were told it was. The last guys were looking after this place for thirty years and never saw a soul.
We’re fine here.
It’s the perfect place for us to leave the funk we were in behind, and if Hart can’t gain some life perspective here, it’s never going to happen.
At least I can say I tried.
CHAPTER
TWO
WILDE
I’m sweaty, shoulders burning, and I take a swing with my post again. My heavy wooden stick collides with the fence, and I swear it shifts under my blow. Every month, I prepare for the town’s Peril match like it’s my day job, and in a way, it is.
It’s the only way to make money around here.
Our fight nights draw a crowd, and I’m determined to be the best.
Chest heaving with exertion, I pass the heavy post to my left hand to practice with my less dominant grip. Most people go with a lighter stick since they’re easier to land a hit with, but the heavier posts hurt the most.
I lunge into a side swipe, when the crunch of tires cutting through gravel pulls my attention from the fence. The old, blue Jeep pulls to a stop a few feet away, and Ziggy climbs out from behind the wheel, worry written all over his usually relaxed face.
I’m immediately on alert.
“Did someone go off Hobby Straight again?” That windingmountain road has travelers skim the edge of Wilde’s End without knowing we’re here. A few times a year, someone takes the bend too wide, so I have to head up there and haul their car back up out of the trees.
Ziggy shakes his head, lips tightening and eyes getting darker, which doesn’t fill me with confidence. Whatever the hell has shaken him up isn’t going to be something I like.
My thoughts immediately jump to Foley, mayor of the township closest to us. He’s an asshole who’s suggested once or twice that the Dale absorbs Wilde’s End, but we’ve never seen eye to eye on that. Both towns are completely off the grid, but his is larger, and they don’t have the same values as we do.
Values, like, you know, respect. We’re radical like that.
I hold up my hand, and Ziggy tosses the keys to me. The snap of metal as I catch them in the air sets my teeth prematurely on edge. Maybe I’m reading too far into the vibes Ziggy is throwing off … but I doubt it. Not much rattles him.
“Do we need to grab the doc?” I ask, passing the front of my house to reach his car.
Ziggy again rejects the question and takes the passenger seat. I’m a bit of a control freak, and riding shotgun isn’t something I do, which people in Wilde’s End picked up on fast. Our rule out here is “don’t ask,” and I’ve thankfully never had to explain myself, just like Ziggy’s never had to explain why he hates to talk. We all have pasts, but the only thing that matters is who we are after we get here.
Which is why I’m set on keeping Foley’s ideas out of my town.
We climb into Ziggy’s Jeep, and I get the engine going before pulling out again. Whenever we need to turn, he taps the dashboard and points, but otherwise, I keep going straight until Irealize where he’s taking me. My gaze swings to where he’s worrying his thumbnail between his teeth.
“Old End?”
Ziggy’s messy black hair is held back by a wire headband, but tufts have pulled free to block the expression in his brown eyes. Slowly, he nods, and his unease has my muscles wound tight as I switch gears.
