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“Dav Bosanko.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“He’s Sol’s dad. From the Joker.”
“I don’t know who that is either.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Sol? Why?”
Saint tries to tell me, but his speech dries up and I don’t push him. I find the gaps. Fill them myself. Realise with grating frustration that I respect Saint too much not to do what he says.
“I’m guessing I need to do it before the fella comes back tomorrow?”
Saint nods.
“And I can find Sol at the Joker?”
Apparently so.
I sigh. “All right then. Good job I feel like a drink, eh?”
It’s the end of my conversation with Saint. I leave him in my bedroom—at this point, why not?—and take a shower. Find a pen in the kitchen and scrawl on my hand. Then I tramp into town on weary legs to the furthest point in Porth Luck. Past the lively beach and the busy harbour. The bakery, the tattoo studio, and the cider brewery. The air smells of trouble and the grilled fish Oscar brought me the other day. I follow the scent past his house without glancing through the front windows and make it all the way to the lifeguard base before I’m intercepted.
Folk reaches the top of the driftwood steps, the sea breeze in his tawny hair and sand on his bare legs. He’s not alone, but the Rebel King he’s with melts into the night before I see who it is, and I don’t care enough to wonder.
“There you are.” I stop in front of him. “Why does Jekka think I’m ignoring you?”
My brother’s gaze is steady and wise. “Because I told her you didn’t read the message I sent you.”
“One message. That doesn’t constitute ignoring you.”
“Never said it did.”
“Why haven’t you been up to the farm to annoy me then?”
“You want me to?”
No. Yes. No. “It’s just weird that you haven’t.”
Folk’s chest expands with a sigh. “You need me, Po, I’m there. But I got the hint when you took Saint’s money instead of mine. Figured you’d find me when you were ready.”
He speaks with warmth and patience. I see it in his body language. But I miss my brother’s voice. Of all I’ve lost, his is the one that haunts me the most. “Knew you were salty about that.”
“I’m not salty.”
“Liar.”
“Am I?” Folk tips his gaze to the sky. Then the ocean behind him before he looks at me again. “Saint’s a good person to do business with. You can learn a lot from each other.”
“And you and me can’t?”
“We could have. We can. But we don’t need to be squabbling over irrigation systems to do it.”
He’s not wrong. About any of it, I suppose. I study him a moment longer. Then I give him a hug that seems to surprise him and frown at how he feels in my arms. Folk’s too limber and lithe to carry much muscle, but he feels slim, skinny almost, and it bothers me.
I pull back to study him again, but he speaks before I can.
