“I know. Once you’ve got your mind set on something, you don’t stop,” he says, his eyes drifting back toward the hallway.
There’s some ancient drama between Sy’s birth father and Oakley’s dads, and I think sometimes he feels guilty about the weirdness his presence causes in the family.
I’m tempted to say something, but in the end, I decide to keep my mouth shut.
Even though Silas is right about changing later, I decide not to take out the contacts because they were way too hard to get in. I do, however, put on my normal clothing, then set out to follow Truett.
Fifty bucks says he’s going straight for Brantley’s house.
Pattern recognition for the win. I’m in Brantley’s neighborhood off Highway 2222—half-billion-dollar homes carved and cantilevered into the tree-covered limestone hills. I’ll never understand spending this much money on a house that can only be accessed by steeply graded roads, hairpin turns, and a fucking prayer to the gods of regenerative brakes.
Brantley’s cul-de-sac is at the bottom of a deep dive off a winding road. The large, flat circle of pavement is surrounded by four impossible driveways that twist, then drop farther down the hillside.
I’m parked across from Truett’s Mustang—by the way,nota subtle car—and well-hidden by the shadows cast by dimly lit streetlamps and the junipers and oaks which encroach on every inch of ground not chiseled out by progress. I know he hasn’t clocked me yet because my phone would be going off.
See? I don’t suck that bad.
Now that I’m here, though, I’m not exactly sure what to do. I can only see the top of Brantley’s house from this angle.
Huh. Might as well fuck with the hot barber.
I grab my phone and a spare tracker, then walk across the cul-de-sac. After carefully placing the thin tracking disc on the undercarriage—no scratches this time—I put on my smuggest look, lean against his Mustang, and take a selfie.
“Rami?” Truett asks, breathing heavily. “What are you doing here?”
I startle and drop my phone. Shit.
Truett steps into the cul-de-sac, having climbed up a neighbor’s driveway as if he hiked through the thick tangle of trees to avoid the entrance to Brantley’s house. He doesn’t look happy.
Great, just after our special night at his place, I go and fuck it up with my little stalking routine.
Only… True looks like he’s just run a marathon after having seen a ghost. And he’s holding the gun from the shooting range, now fitted with a suppressor.
“Why are your eyes—never mind,” he says, cutting off his own question with an irritated gesture. “You need to get in your car and go.Now.”
Embarrassed and scared, I point at his weapon. “What are you?—”
I’m stopped mid-sentence as a man walks out of the shadows by my car. He’s wearing black tactical gear and holding a rifle in the low-ready position.
Why is everyone fucking hiking through the hills in the dark?
Truett raises his gun, pushing me behind him.
“Rami, it’s Dad. Tell Truett to lower his weapon.”
I’d know that drawl from anywhere, but I don’t understand why Dad’s here or why he’s armed to the teeth.
I push Truett’s gun down as Baba, wearing the same black gear, comes in behind Dad. They cross under the tastefully flickering streetlamps, and what I see in their shadowed expressions puts a cold pit in my stomach.
Yes, Truett told me they were part of a vigilante group, but they’re mydads. I’d imagined some kind of weekend-warrior situation. Hapless, but doing their best.
I don’t know these men.
But they know Truett.
“Valentine’s right, son,” Baba says, tilting his head. “What happened to your eyes?”
“Never mind that,” Dad says, scanning the trees. “You need to leave.Now.”
