The breeze picks up briefly, already heavy with the coming heat, as I make my way toward the train carriages that hold our supplies. I need a few things for this bird, since I want to try out an idea I had to fix the beak, and I’m distracted going over the design in my head. I reach the first carriage and pull open the door—then freeze.
It wasn’t locked.
My gaze darts to where the padlock normally hangs, but it’s not there. Did Wilde come up here while I was gone? He’s normally so careful about locking?—
Something shiny in the thick grass gathered around one of the large metal carriage wheels snags my attention. I stoop down, pick it up … and my pulse takes off.
The padlock has been smashed open.
This wasn’t Wilde.
I quickly close the door, tuck the damaged padlock into my pocket, then head inside my mine for my keys. It’s the second time this week I’ve had to use my truck, and I can’t remember a time that’s ever happened.
Wilde’s End works because we look after each other. We don’t take more than we need, we don’t hoard goods, and if someone needs something from the supply carriages, all they have to do is let Wilde know, and he’ll get it for them.
We keep our shit locked up in case of strangers and the rare times people from the Dale have raided us. Considering how many matches Foley has won in Peril lately, they shouldn’t be wanting for anything.
So while it’s unlikely, I can’t rule out that possibility. But I also can’t rule out the possibility that it was one of our own. Thisis one of the many, many times I’m glad I’m not in charge. Wilde can work out what to do about it.
He’s not at home, so I check in a few of the usual places and find him walking out of the Lair. He’s sweaty, carrying his post, and looks like he’s just finished training.
The second he sees my car, he’s immediately on alert.
“What is it?” he calls as I climb out.
I pull the padlock from my pocket and hand it over.
There’s a pause while Wilde turns it over, inspecting the damage, and then he holds it up. “This from the carriages?”
Yes.
“Shit. Where’s Rooney?”
“I haven’t seen him.” Which means he’s either sourcing or at home.
“Think you can find him for me? He needs to call a meeting.”
Thankfully, he’s at home, and when I show him the lock and utter the wordmeeting, Rooney jumps in my truck and directs me to where everyone should be. He has an uncanny knack for knowing things, and I’ve never been completely comfortable around him. It’s not like with Booker, where I assume he’s waiting for me to drop dead so he can see how much blood’s inside me, but it throws me anyway. Sometimes I think Rooney knows things about me before I know them myself.
By the time we get to the Cutty, everyone’s waiting for us. Wilde has been home to shower and change, Nox and Booker are sitting at the table furthest from the door, Lynx has his arms folded, leaning by the entrance like he’d rather be anywhere else, and Viv is bustling around in the kitchen out the back.
She doesn’t technically have to be here, but whenever she knows there’s a meeting on, she shows up with snacks. And I love her for it.
Booker doesn’t technically need to be here either, but he’s nosy and is the one with connections across all the towns within driving distance.
“Someone broke into the supplies,” Wilde says, jumping straight into it as always. “We need to find out who, and we need to do it quickly.”
That catches everyone’s attention. Rooney joins Wilde by the jukebox as Viv brings out a plate of cookies and hands it off to Nox.
They’re confused as they look from Viv and back to Wilde again. “You think it was someone in town?” they ask.
“I don’t think anything. Someone broke in, and I want to know who.”
“I’ll tell you who,” Lynx says. His machete is strapped to his belt, and even with Bob waiting outside, he looks no less menacing. Thankfully, I know better.
“Who?” Rooney asks, playing along, though I have a good idea what he’s going to say next.
“The brothers. They need supplies, so they figured they’d help themselves to ours. Like they have done with everything else in this town.”
