His face hardens. “I ain’t him.”
“No,” I say. “But she doesn’t know that yet.”
That lands.
He looks at the closed door again, and the line of his mouth changes. Less irritated. More grim.
“Yeah,” he says. “I got that.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Downstairs, the low thrum of the clubhouse continues. Men moving quietly. Whiskey’s voice on the phone. Legend’s deeper rumble. A bottle setting down. The old building creaking around all of us like it’s settling in to hold one more secret.
Derby sits in the chair, elbows on knees.
“You think she’s really his sister?” he asks.
“I think she came here needing him to be her father.”
“That ain’t the same.”
“No.”
He nods once. “Legend is taking it hard.”
“He’s trying not to.”
“Same thing with him.”
That makes me look at Derby a little differently.
He sees more than he pretends to.
Maybe all of them do. Maybe pretending not to is just how men like this survive softness.
“He don’t know how to have a sister,” I say.
Derby huffs. “Hell, most men barely know how to have a conversation.”
“True.”
“I heard Royal’s sister showing up made him half crazy.”
“Royal started half crazy.”
Derby grins. “Fair.”
Then his smile fades. “Still. Two sisters. Bout the same time.”
“Close enough. I know.”
“You think it’s connected?”
“I think women in trouble are rarely coincidences. But I also think if we turn Amelia into a conspiracy before she gets one night of sleep, we’re no better than the men who made her run.”
He looks at me then. There’s respect in his eyes, though he would probably chew glass before naming it.
“You’re good at this queen shit,” he says.
