Page 27 of The Bastard's Lily
“Not sayin’ that.” He scratches his beard. “But I will say this—he rolled up last night, soaked through and full of goddamn leaves. Said he went for a drive to clear his head.”
I blink. “In the middle of a storm?”
“Yup. Looked like he crawled through a fuckin’ ditch. Didn’t have nothin’ to show for it but mud on his boots and a twitch in his eye. Then your kid shows up, not even a few minutes later.”
I go still. Not the kind that shows, not enough to notice. But inside? My gut cinches tight, a low hum starting in my spine, vibrating like it knows something I don’t yet.
Beau. My son—my fuckin’ son—shows up not five minutes after some jittery little prospect stumbles in lookin’ like he wrestled a tornado, and Grimm’s just now tellin’ me this?
Something about that timing don’t sit right. Like a puzzle piece dropped in the wrong damn box. Could be coincidence. Sure. But I don’t believe in those anymore. Not after Calla. Not after five years of silence and buried truths.
I drag a hand down my face and nod slowly, eyes still locked on the hallway where she disappeared with him. “You tell anyone else?”
Grimm snorts. “Ain’t exactly got a bulletin board, brother. Thought you oughta know.”
“Yeah.” My voice is rough. “Appreciate it.”
He claps me on the shoulder and walks off, and I stand there for a second, heart doing that uneven thud like it’s caught between memory and murder. Mud on his boots. Leaves in his hair. A twitch in his eye. Storm or not, that ain't right. And if he laid so much as a fuckin’ finger on Beau—or on her—
No. Don’t jump. Don’t swing without proof.
But my knuckles itch anyway. I turn on my heel and head for the dining hall. Time to keep my eyes open. I lost five years. I ain’t losin’ another second.
I can’t stop looking at him. Beau’s got syrup on his cheek and a dimple that digs in every time he laughs at Grimm’s stupid pancake face impression. He’s got her eyes, my smile, and a grip on my heart that should terrify me, but doesn’t. Not in the way it should.
It’s the other shit that’s setting me on edge. He knew how to get here. From that goddamn cabin, through woods thick with brush and ankle-snapping roots, past the firebreak trail, across two damn access roads. And he walked it. Alone.
I rake a hand through my hair and force a breath through my nose. Grimm’s still chuckling, ruffling Beau’s curls, and Calla’s got that half-smile on her lips like she’s pretending not to be proud. She’s calm. Too calm. I can’t ignore it anymore.
I lean over behind her chair and murmur, low and rough, “We need to talk.”
She stiffens for a second. Not like she’s scared, like she’s bracing for a blow that isn’t coming. Then she wipes Beau’s cheek with a napkin, stands, and follows me without a word. I take her down the hall past the chapel room, through the supply door, and out back toward the smokers’ stoop. It’s quiet here. No eyes, no ears.Just me and her, and the heavy thump in my chest I can’t seem to slow.
I turn to face her. “How’d he know?”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“Beau.” I cross my arms. “How’d he know where to go? How’d he get from your place to here? That’s not a walk you stumble into, Calla.”
She presses her lips together. Tight. Defensive. But not guilty.
“I didn’t tell him,” she says after a beat. “Not directly.”
My jaw ticks. “Not directly isn’t the same as not at all.”
“I followed his tracks,” she snaps back. “Little boot prints in the dirt. Led from the back of the cabin through the trees. Motorcycle tracks beside them, too. Fresh ones. Deep enough to guide a four-year-old with too much of your goddamn stubborn in him.”
I blink. “Motorcycle tracks?”
She nods. “Rutted the path up from the rain.”
I nod, slow. “Fresh ones, huh?”
She eyes me. “You think I made that up?”
“No,” I murmur, running a hand over the back of my neck. “I believe you.”
I just wish I didn’t. I know exactly who left those damn tracks. Prospect or not, I’ll string him up if anything had happened to Beau. And I’ll hang myself right beside him for letting it happen in the first place.
