Of course she’s seen it.Everyone’s probably seen it by now.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
“Well of course it’s nothing.” She laughs, leaning into Roman. “Can you imagine if we actually believed anything theRagsaid? It’s a trash tabloid.”
I chuckle, but my gaze catches on Roman, who’s watching me with a knowing look. I don’t like it.
“You should still be careful,” he says. “Rumors have a way of spiraling.”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”
My cousin Tyler’s moving toward us, and I have to work to keep my reaction neutral. Both because I’m surprised to see him at a mayoral campaign, and also because he’s thinner than he used to be. There’s a stiffness to his movements that tells me he’s in pain, even if he’d never admit it. Seeing him now brings back the worst parts of that night a few months ago—the parts I can’t think about without my hands shaking.
I was right there, and I didn’t stop it. Couldn’t save him. Barely saved Juliette.
The memory of Freddy’s voice, right before he shot him, hits me.“You had one job, Tyler. One thing I ask of you, and I’d let Benjamin give her back…but you’re always causing problems.”
I hadn’t known Tyler was doinganythingwith Freddy, but now I don’t feel like I have the right to ask.
“Ty.” I nod at him. “You look like shit.”
He stops beside Juliette, his eyes scanning my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You only show up to these things when you need something, or when you think one of us has done something stupid. Which is it?”
“Can’t I just support the democratic process?”
Tyler’s gaze slides to Roman, and his expression hardens. The tension between them is old and deep, rooted in things that happened long before Roman ever came back to Rosebrook.
Roman holds his stare, unbothered.
“I need to find Art,” I say, before either of them can turn this into something the crowd notices.
Juliette catches my arm. “Lance. Whatever’s going on with you… You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Yeah, Jules, I know.”
I pull away and push through the crowd toward the gazebo. Art spots me coming and excuses himself from the cluster of supporters and meets me halfway, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“Holy shit, man. Did someone die?”
“Hilarious.”
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” He’s smiling, but there’s tension around his eyes.
“I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“Genevieve.”
Art goes still, and there’s a flash I’d miss if I wasn’t looking for it. But Iamlooking. I’m looking at him the way I look at an opponent in the ring, scanning for the tell that says he knows what’s coming before the punch lands.
There’s fear in the way his brow dips and his mouth tightens. But I can’t tell if it’s fear for her or fear of being found out. He nods, glancing around.
