“I’m taking this upstairs,” he says, “and I’m going to see what we’ve actually got.”
He’s halfway to the stairs before anyone even has time to answer, unable to stand to leaving the puzzle untouched for another second.
Ryder opens one of Jake’s cupboards and pulls out a bottle of wine, holding it up by the neck.
“Jake got me this when I was recovering,” he says, and reads the label proudly. “Barolo. Two thousand sixteen. Piedmont.”
Ryder could be trapped in a burning restaurant and he’d still take the time to examine the wine collection.
Wyatt leans against the counter, arms folded, watching Ryder pop the cork clean and pour three glasses. He hands one to me and one to Wyatt.
“You two did good work today,” Ryder says, lifting his glass to eye the wine as it catches the kitchen light. “Sit,” he says, motioning to the living room. “Relax. I’ll make dinner.”
He grabs a pan from the cupboard and sets it on the stove.
“Go,” he repeats, waving his hand. “Sit down. Drink. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Wyatt nudges me with his shoulder and steers us out of the kitchen.
The living room is going dim as the sun sets. Wyatt turns on a lamp. It’s quiet except for the clang of metal on metal coming from Damian’s room. He takes a recliner and I sit near him on one end of the couch, the wine glass warm in my hand.
Wyatt takes a sip and his nose scrunches the tiniest bit, almost imperceptible.
“You hate it,” I say with a small laugh.
“I don’t hate it,” he replies. “I…respect it.”
I snort. From the kitchen, Ryder calls, “It’s good wine.”
Wyatt lifts his glass toward the doorway. “It’s good wine.” He shrugs at me. He’s really more of a whiskey guy.
The sound of chopping starts up in the kitchen, a knife hitting a cutting board, making a slightly disjointed domestic rhythm against the occasional clang of the weights downstairs.
I take a sip of the wine. It’s dark and earthy, and I like the way the heat of it down my throat seems to burn off the feeling of the clubhouse. As if it left a residue.
“How are you feeling after today?” Wyatt asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I think it went well. But it’s…weird to go back, you know?”
“Yep.” He exhales. “I sure do. Unbelievable how much everything’s changed in such a short time. It’s just a corpse of a memory now.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “A bad one.”
I pick at the edge of my wine glass, thumb sliding over the smooth rim. “I used to always be trying to hide in there, you know? In that place. Like, hoping no one would notice me. But with Billy gone…seeing how it’s all kind of over, I didn’t feel as scared anymore.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes crinkling at me warmly. “I know what you mean. I could see the difference. You weren’t afraid to hold your head high and be heard today.”
His forearm catches the lamplight when he lifts his glass—tanned skin, even in October, faint bruising that’s fading, the line of muscle underneath.
“It felt good.” I take a deep sigh, and realize that I feel surprisingly relaxed. “I felt stronger…”
I take a sip, thinking about how different today felt, and then remember the man on TV. The one from Dewy’s. I almost forgot to tell them.
“Oh!” I say quickly. “The man on the TV behind Hargrove! The one Babydoll said came through and took all the boxes? I know him.”
“How?” asks Wyatt. “Through Billy?”
“No. He spoke to me one night when I was at Dewy’s with Jake and Damian. The night someone took my picture and put it up on that bounty board? I think it was him. He knew my name. And…he was with Silas the night they took me. The night Silas shot Ryder.”
