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“Then why do they think they can fix it?”
“Considering we don’t know what’s wrong with it, it could just be the electrics. So we might as well give it a try since Booker isn’t exactly jumping at the chance to go to Dale.”
“What’s Dale like?”
Wilde tips his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Well, is it a shithole? Is that why he doesn’t want to go?”
Wilde takes his time to pull up before he answers. “It’s … lawless. Wilde’s End works because we follow a code of respect and live together harmoniously. In the Dale, it’s every man for himself. Foley rules there, but only because he’s the biggest and strongest of them all. They fear him. But that’s not why Booker won’t go.”
“Then why won’t he go?”
“Because Foley wants him to.”
I think of the man with the slicked-back dark hair, skull teeth tattooed across his face, and hypnotically blue eyes. I met him at the meeting where they were all bickering about what to do with me. “That guy is creepy.”
“He’s an asshole. And he has a weird fixation on Booker.”
“Booker?” Trying to put the two of them together clashes in my mind. Foley is intense and brooding; Booker is, well, an absolute pancake. He’s erratic and ridiculous, Foley’s opposite in every way. Where Foley is tall and muscular, Booker is shorter and fat. Where Foley gives off menacing vibes, Booker lures you closer. One looks like he never smiles, and the other never stops.
What the hell does Foley see in a man who isn’t capable of the truth and twists reality to the point you’re not even sure about the things you’re sure of?
“I don’t get it either,” Wilde says. “I like Booker for his usefulness, and I like that I can make a lot of money off Foley. Outside of that, I never want to interact with either of them.”
“How do you make money off him?”
“Through Peril.”
“Ahh … your little fight club.”
Wilde gives me an impatient glower. “Go and get your keys.”
It’s hard not to huff at the clear lack of respect I get around here. It’s always do this, Sasha. Do that, Sasha. Lynx was mad over me not having a say with Antonio, but it’s not much different here.
Except that no one here is going to kill me. Well, anymore.
I think.
The little hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I cross the leaf-covered ground for the cabin. It looks empty, but maybe Lynx is rubbing off on me because I don’t trust the stillness. I climb the front stairs, then push the door slowly open.
It’s empty.
My exhale puffs out of me.
I move as quickly as I can to shove all of my things back into my suitcase, grab my keys, and then head back to Wilde’s truck. He eyes the suitcase as I swing it into the cab, but thankfully doesn’t ask any questions.
“Let’s go check out my car.”
We’re driving for a while, and I’m completely lost in these trees, but thankfully, Wilde knows where he’s going. “We’ve left it near Rooney’s place.”
“Sounds good.” It immediately makes me think of Lynx because of his theory about Rooney. A theory I still can’t wrap my head around … until we pull up beside Rooney’s house.
“What’s with all the mushrooms?”
“It’s a very wet area of the forest,” Wilde says. “And Rooney likes the colors.”
Between the brightly painted house, and the flower beds overstuffed with flowers that a bee is currently bobbing between, and the mushrooms absolutely everywhere, I’m maybe understanding where Lynx is coming from.
