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As we neared the office, Ricky hit the brakes, his free hand going to my knee, bracing and warning me. A TV van rounded the corner ahead.
Ricky continued to the next intersection and took the back route. There were three cars and two news vans outside the office. Seeing that, Ricky pulled a U-turn and idled at the curb. We both checked our phones. Ricky lifted his to show me a call and a text from Gabriel. I had three of the first and two of the second, plus one of each from Lydia. The upshot was the same: don't go back to the office.
I texted Gabriel and Lydia both a quick Got it. Thanks! Then I typed in another message and held the phone up for Ricky to read.
How the hell did the media hear about it already?
"Scanner," he said, raising his helmet shield. "We'll go--" When he stopped, I followed his gaze to a car turning the corner. He lowered his shield.
The car reached us and then veered, a guy in the passenger seat jumping out even before it stopped. A camera flew up, snapping shots.
"Eden!" I saw the cameraman mouth. "Rick!"
We were already tearing away from the curb, but the fool tried to jump in front of us. Ricky steered around the reporter and roared off, one hand raised in a middle-finger salute.
When he kept his hand raised, I figured out what he was really doing--making it impossible for them to get a photo they could use.
We rode to Ricky's place. He detoured around the back of the student-housing complex. Sure enough, the car we'd dodged was arriving from the other direction, and there was already a TV van waiting.
As we pulled over, Ricky took out his phone and typed a message for me: They won't dare come to the clubhouse. And I suspect they can't easily find Gabriel's home address.
There was a third option. I sent a text to Gabriel: Media at Ricky's. Need your advice.
He texted back immediately: There's only one safe option here, Olivia.
I replied, Cainsville.
Yes, I'll meet you somewhere and drive you in.
Ricky, who was reading over my shoulder, shook his head and motioned that he wanted to stick close.
I nodded and replied that Ricky would drive me.
All right. I'll see you both at Rose's.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cainsville is a cloistered little town, physically cut off from the rest of the world. The highway passes close by, but you have to circle back twenty minutes on a narrow thirty-mile-an-hour road to get there. There is no industry, no tourism, and the housing market is tightly controlled. In short, unless you have good reason to visit Cainsville, you wouldn't.
As we rode in, I kept my arms around Ricky, my eyes on the back of his jacket. He turned onto Rowan and stopped in front of Rose's. It wasn't hard to find, given the "Rosalyn Z. Razvan, Take Charge of Your Future" sign in the window. And it was across the road from my apartment.
I glanced over at the three-story, yellow-gray Renaissance Revival walk-up that had been my home for the past couple of months. My landlord, Grace, sat on the front stoop, perched like one of the town's many gargoyles, the most forbidding of them all. She mad
e no secret of the fact she was watching me, her sunken dark eyes glued on the motorcycle the entire way from the corner.
After a moment's hesitation, I pulled off my helmet and said, "I'm going to speak to Grace."
He nodded and lifted a hand to her in greeting. She acknowledged him with a dour nod.
I crossed the road and climbed the steps. "So," I said. "You're a bogart, right?"
"Is that how you're going to start conversations now?"
"Just in Cainsville."
She snorted.
"Hey, it's the only way I'm likely to find out."
