Page 65 of Wilde's End
He’s tall and lanky, has a lot of messy black hair, and his dark eyes fly wide under pierced eyebrows. I’m pretty sure this is the guy who’s been helping Wilde keep an eye on us. It takes one look from his startled expression to the cart full of our tools before my shock disappears.
I shove him into the building and press my arm to his throat. “Youstole our tools!”
There’s sound inside the house, probably Kennedy, but I’m too fixated on the man in front of me.
He throws his hands up between us, head shaking madly, almost like he’s scared, and maybe I’d care more about his feelings if I hadn’t busted him with our shit.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer me, just keeps shaking his head, pressing back against the building like he’ll somehow disappear inside it.
“Hudson?” Kennedy asks, pausing at the bottom of the front stairs. “What’s going on?”
“Look at what’s in the cart.”
“It’s … our tools?”
“Exactly. I caught this motherfucker with them!”
The man tries to wriggle away from me, but I press my forearm tighter. His gaze is fixed somewhere on the ground, and the only thing he’s doing is shaking his head nonstop.
“Jesus, Huddy,” Kennedy says as he approaches. “At least let him explain.”
“Explain how he ended up with our things? It’s pretty obvious to me.”
“I mean it.” Kennedy grabs my arm. “Let him go.”
“We can’t be weak with these people!”
“I’m not being weak.” He glares at me. “You told me to stand up for shit, so now I’m doing it. Let him go. You’re hurting him.”
I’m definitely not hurting him, but Kennedy being so direct makes me back off. I slowly release the pressure on this guy’s throat, and he slumps back against the wall. My heart is still racing, an insistent, stubborn reaction to literally everything that’s going on with me.
“Don’t even think about running,” I grit out.
Kennedy shoots me a warning look but turns to the man. “Are you okay?”
He hasn’t looked away from the ground, but after a moment, he nods.
“Sorry about Hudson. We’re all a bit stressed.”
He nods again.
Kennedy shifts closer. “I’m Kennedy. Who are you?”
The man drags his gaze from the ground to brush over me before settling on my brother’s face. There’s a long stretch of nothing, but the man lifts a hand and makes two fast, slashing movements over his mouth.
“You … can’t talk?” Kennedy asks, and I look back at the guy, waiting for confirmation.
Instead, he sighs. It’s one of those full-body ones that has his shoulders sagging, and then he clears his throat and drops his gaze somewhere around Kennedy’s throat.
“Ziggy.” It’s barely a whisper.
“Ziggy?” Kennedy confirms, and when the man doesn’t answer, my brother’s natural smile shines through. “Did you steal our tools?”
The man shakes his head.
“Do you know who did?”
