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An empty threat. I’m not a murderer. But Dav doesn’t know that—he doesn’t know me, and my brother taught me a long time ago how to make someone believe I want to hurt them.
I hold Dav’s gaze.
He swallows. “I can explain.”
“Go on then.”
He blanches and his jittery gaze darts beyond the crater he’s carved out in my field and I know in that instant there’s more.
“How many?”
“See for yourself—”
I shake him again. “How many fucking holes do we have to dig?”
Dav sighs. “I don’t know. Two? Maybe three? I got the others up last week.”
Horror-fuelled dizziness rocks me. How have I missed this? And why didn’t I listen to Saint, to Folk, to Oscar when they told me Dav was nothing but trouble?
I don’t have any answers to that question beyond a suspicion I was likely in bed with Oscar every time Dav came sneaking around, and it makes me wonder if he knew that. If he’s been watching me this whole time—a notion that leaves me sick to my stomach and surrendering to the need to protect what I love.
Who I love.
Which is a whole new revelation, though it shouldn’t be. How dense would I have to be to not know how hard I’ve fallen for Oscar? How much he matters to me?
You don’t have time for this.
My field is tainted with death of the worst kind, manmade and cruel.
“They’re not mine,” Dav says suddenly.
I release him. “I don’t care.”
“They—”
“I don’t give a shit.” The words tear at my throat. I’m shouting and it isn’t because Oscar’s mouth has me in a chokehold. I’m shouting and I need to stop. Before someone hears me and I don’t hear them, a reality that adds resentment to the rage already simmering in my blood. “Where are the rest?”
Dav risks a glance at the crowbar hanging in my grip. Maybe because he thinks I might swing it once he gives me what I’m asking for. Maybe because he knows I want to—a thought that crashes through me hot, ugly, and far too real.
I loosen my grip on the bar. “Talk.”
“You sure, boss?”
“Yes.” I make the decision so fast I’m dizzy again. “Unless you want me to call my business partner and you can talk to him instead.”
“Who’s that then?”
I dead-eye him. “Saint Malone.”
If Dav had any colour in his face left, it evaporates at the mention of a man I know to be as lethal as any soldier Folk’s ever brought home. “Don’t call Malone.”
“Why not? Are they his guns?”
“No.” Dav shakes his head so emphatically I don’t waste much time wondering if he’s telling the truth. “It’s got nothing to do with the Kings, I swear. Don’t raise ‘em. And not your brother neither.”
“You buried firearms on my farm.”
“I never wanted to.”
