“And to spite Zane,” Clyde adds. “I think he hates him more than I do.”
“Might be why they took Cora too. Just to piss him off,” Rune says, handing me a fork. “They only needed Delilah to get my attention.”
My stomach tumbles oddly. I had known they didn’t need me for their plan, yet hearing Rune say it out loud hits differently. The wall of pictures and information they gathered on us over the years flashes through my mind. I wasn’t the target, Delly was, yet they took me.
They wanted me too.
Not just for a plan, not just because I could be used as a tool.
They wanted me.
All of them.
I inhale, sitting up straighter, that knowledge solidifying my resolve. Reaper needs information, so I’m going to get it.
“Come on,” Clyde says, shaking me from my thoughts. He shoves the runny eggs and dry toast toward Rune. “You eat this shit. I’m going to get Cora a proper breakfast.”
***
To say that the car ride to Clyde’s house is tense is an understatement. The proper breakfast Clyde promised is a quickstop at a chain drive-through. He places the order and drops it unceremoniously into my lap without even a glance my way.
Red light after red light catches us, stretching minutes into what feels like hours. We come to a standstill on the interstate, caught in morning traffic and with each passing second, the air grows thicker with tension and everything Clyde’s not saying. Explanations stack up in my throat, but I swallow them down. Clyde doesn’t want excuses, and I don’t want to talk about it.
It appears he doesn’t either.
So we don’t. I pop a few greasy hash browns into my mouth to keep it occupied instead of rambling from nerves and we sit in a heavy silence all the way to Clyde’s giant white house. I’ve been so tense, my body on such high alert, that I can feel the crash coming on as I walk up the steps and into the immaculate and sterile mansion. The familiar sting of bleach hits my nose as we enter, making my eyes water.
“Who cleans this place?” I ask. “And who’s obsessed with bleach? You or the person who cleans?”
I bet it’s him.
Clyde doesn’t answer as he shuts the front door, then brushes past me like I don’t exist, marching down the hall toward the back of the house. Placing my now cold fast food on the large table in the center of the foyer, I follow, my stomach tumbling, making what little bits of my shitty breakfast I ate, roil in my stomach.
By the time I catch up to him, he’s already at the door leading to his indoor range. Without a word, he punches in the code to unlock the door, and enters, leaving it open behind him. I take that as my cue to follow. I step through the door, inhaling the tang of metal and gunpowder.
“We’re shooting?” I ask as the door slides shut behind me.
Nothing. Not a damn word.
He unlocks the large metal lockers and takes out several black rifles, magazine clips, and boxes of ammo, setting them on a nearby bench, but keeps his mouth pressed tightly closed.
Apparently, Clyde’s response to my disappearing act is to give me the silent treatment.
My gaze travels around the open room, taking in the military gray walls and black lockers, still amazed that Clyde has a secret range in his home, when they land on the large black and white pictures of the ballet dancers. I step closer, drawn by the stark contrast of something so delicate in such a militant, sterile place.
Both photographs capture several dancers in various poses, showcasing the long lines of their limbs, the slim columns of their necks. The stage where they dance is old, the surface worn, lacquer bubbling and peeling from the procession arch framing it. The entire scene makes the silk hugging the dancers’ lithe bodies seem far too delicate for such a harsh environment.
Each woman is young and pretty from what little I can see of their faces, but there’s a severity in the look of them. A hardness the cameraman captured, adding an edge of darkness to the pictures.
“I didn’t know you liked ballet,” I say over my shoulder.
“I don’t.”
I whip around, catching him with his eyes fixed on the images. “Then why have the pictures on the wall of your secret lair?”
“First. This room isn’t a secret,” he says. “I had to pull permits to have it built. Second. That”—he points to the pictures—“is none of your business.”
Clyde thrusts two large rifles at me—the familiar one from before and another with a compact barrel and grip. I take both, resting them on my shoulders as he gathers up the rest of theitems, then hands me a pair of earmuffs before stalking to the back of the room.
