Finn clearly wants to argue further, but he knows that tone in Ryder’s voice. The decision has already been made.
“You realize this makes things more complicated,” Finn says quietly.
“They already are,” Ryder replies.
I glance toward the back door again, picturing the scorched brick beneath the office window, the faint echo of sirens still ringing in my ears.
“Okay,” I say. “So we go tomorrow. To him. See what happens.”
See if we can survive this…
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Aurora
Am I really doing this?
I know this isn’t what my grandmother meant when she wanted me to come to this town, and this certainly isn’t necessary for my ‘finding myself’ journey, yet here I am, willingly getting into Ryder’s truck, going with a motorcycle gang to their old... place.
Evie wanted scenic overlooks and emotional clarity.
Not… whatever this is.
The truck door shuts with a solid, final sound that feels suspiciously like commitment.
Ryder drives. Zane takes the passenger seat like he’s been assigned there by instinct rather than discussion. I end up in the back with Finn, which I suspect isn’t accidental. If this were a chessboard, I’m the piece everyone is trying not to sacrifice.
Coyote Glen looks soft at night. Warm porch lights. Darkened storefronts. Pines stacked against a navy sky like polite witnesses pretending not to know anything about gasoline or leverage or intimidation tactics.
Inside the truck, the lighting is dim. Low enough to keep the windshield reflection minimal.
Ryder drives like someone who expects to be followed even when he isn’t. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror every few seconds, not nervously, never nervously, but methodically. He keeps one hand loose on the wheel and the other resting near the console like he might need it quickly.
Predator is the only word that fits, and it causes my pulse to dance.
Zane leans slightly forward in the passenger seat, scanning side roads and intersections as we pass them. He’s mapping. Calculating. If something went wrong, I have no doubt he already knows which direction we’d take and where we’d double back.
It’s deeply alarming how reassuring that is.
Finn nudges my knee with his.
“So,” he says lightly, far too casually. “On a scale of one to wildly irresponsible, how are we feeling?”
“I resent the implication,” I reply. “I’m at least a responsible four.”
He’s keeping me talking, because if he doesn’t, my brain is going to sprint:
What if this is a trap?
What if Cole shows up with ten men and a vendetta, and this turns into a documentary narrated by someone with a deep, ominous voice?
What if I am leverage?
What if I’m not?
What if this is the exact moment sensible women pack a bag and drive toward the nearest well-lit highway?
Because there’s no way this isn’t insane. But I do think my reasoning is solid. I don’t want to be left on my own either.
