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“Speaking of …” I turn to Wilde. “I should probably be getting over there.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He casts one more frustrated look over my car. “It couldn’t be simple, could it?”

“Apparently not around here.” Though I’m guessing these guys didn’t sign up for a life in Wilde’s End because they thought it would be easy.

We climb back into Wilde’s truck, Kennedy waving us off, and I take in Rooney’s house again.

It has a fun vibe to it. Nothing like all the depressing wood structures I’ve seen so far, and the quickest, most unwelcome thought flies through my mind. I could live there.

I push it out just as fast. I have absolutely no business picturing laying down roots anywhere. Especially not here. Thinking I can have my own house? Even if it’s a tiny cabin in the woods? Who the hell do I think I am?

The only thing I’ll ever own is rental payments on a shared apartment, the clothes I’ve had since I left home, and Darla. The gift that was supposed to get me to and from college before I pulled the plug on that idea.

I bet my parents regret the few thousand they spent on her.

Wilde’s End is peaceful though. It’s hard to dispute that when there’s nothing but trees and the sound of Wilde’s engine for miles. If only I were the kind of peaceful guy who’d feel content here.

It might work for a few weeks—maybe I could even stretch it out to months if my game with Lynx continues—but I know myself. I know how quickly I’ll get bored. And I know, without a doubt, that what I’ve started with Lynx will have an end date, and it’s not the kind of thing that will fizzle out on its own.

It’s going to be messy and toxic, and there’s no way I’ll be able to hang around once it’s over.

Plus, there’s the USB hidden in the footwell of Darla. I’m supposed to be getting it anonymously to the police so they can pin Antonio for murder, and I’ll never have to worry about him again.

Hiding out in the End is fun to dream about.

But it will never be my reality.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

LYNX

Whenever I’m falling asleep at night, there’s a body sleeping in my room. Whenever I sit down to eat, there’s already someone at my table. When I want to shower, or read a book, or sharpen my knives, there’s someone constantly occupying my space.

And he’s always watching.

And talking.

It’s like Sasha hauled his suitcase through my door one day and my house stopped being mine. There are stupid stuffed animals all around the space, lace panties and skimpy shirts hanging to dry by the window, and the general scattered mess that indicates a place is lived in.

I’m used to order. To neat piles and a place for everything. Not clothes strewn all over the floor.

Every time he leaves for Booker’s, I tell myself it will be the time I pack up his shit and throw him out, but then I try to picture myself doing it, and I can’t. The mess goes on irritating me, and my skin gets softer.

Then he’s dropped back off in the afternoon, and he blows inside like a hurricane, boots flung by the door, whichever hoodie of mine he’s stolen slung over the back of a chair, talking without a breath about whatever Booker showed him that day.

“You talk a lot,” I throw back over my shoulder toward the house. He’s inside, talking to me while I wallow outside, and instead of it offending him, apparently my words are encouragement to join me.

“We covered a lot today.” He flicks me a sweet smile. “Booker showed me how to do a cast.”

“Fascinating.” My tone is as dry as I can make it.

“And messy. But I liked it.”

“Why is he bothering with this?” I ask. “You’re not a medical professional.”

“I think he just wants to know someone is capable of handling the small things while he’s gone.”