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I want to keep texting her, to keep clinging to this last shred of normalcy in my life, a connection to a time when my life was about poker and homework and hanging out with friends on the weekends. Normal fucking teenager stuff.
But as Lincoln rounds a corner, River murmurs, “We’re close,” and my head snaps up.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I lean forward to peer out the window. I don’t recognize this part of town at all, but that’s not surprising. I don’t know Fox Hill all that well yet, especially the out-of-the-way neighborhoods.
And this is definitely out-of-the-way.
Less than a minute later, Lincoln rolls to a stop in front of our destination. It’s a dry cleaning business, surrounded on either side by a worn-down convenience store and a fast-food restaurant. There are blinds on the windows, and they’re down, but the slats are open, allowing me to see inside.
A man sits on a stool behind the counter, looking bored as hell, and from what I can see from here, everything around him looks like it belongs to a legit dry cleaning business. Racks of clothes in garment bags hang behind him, and there’s a small monitor and keyboard set up on the counter next to a credit card machine.
If we didn’t have a receipt with numbers so big it made my heart stop, I’d almost believe we’d made a mistake and that this storefront really is nothing more than a place to take dirty clothes.
But the devil lurks in the blandest things.
Judge Hollowell taught me that.
“Okay.” Linc’s voice is taut as a wire. “Let’s go.”
The guys all open their doors and step out, and I follow after Chase, who takes my hand to help me and doesn’t let go.
The guy inside the dry cleaner looks up as we approach, but he doesn’t look alarmed at our presence, cementing my belief that this place actually does function as a legit business in addition to whatever other shit gets done under the table.
“Picking up?” he asks in a bored voice, sliding off the stool as we approach the counter. He’s in his thirties, with hair shaved close on the sides and a little longer on top, and deep pockmarks on his cheeks.
“No, actually. We just wanted to ask a question about this receipt.” Lincoln takes the piece of paper from River, who’s standing close behind him, Dax right by his side. Linc slaps the document down on the counter lightly, and the sound of his palm hitting the worn wood almost makes me jump.
Fuck. Get it together, Low.
“Yeah? What about it?”
The guy doesn’t seem all that interested—at least, not until he leans over and looks at the receipt. Then his posture changes immediately, a subtle shift that makes my stomach clench with nerves. When he looks back up, every trace of boredom is gone from his face.
“Seems a little high for a refund,” Linc says, and I can’t believe how fucking calm he sounds right now.
The guy behind the counter doesn’t respond to that. His expression is neutral, but the tense lines of his body haven’t eased. He’s watching. Waiting.
“We have a message for Niles D’Amato.” Lincoln raps his knuckles against the paper. “About the man he gave this too. Does Niles know Hollowell’s running for office?”
The guy still doesn’t fucking move or speak. He’s like a black hole, taking everything in but giving nothing back. No sign of what he’s thinking, no sign he’s even heard us.
But Linc continues talking as if the man and he are having a perfectly normal, two-sided conversation. I wonder fleetingly if this is from all the years he’s spent watching his dad negotiate high stakes business deals, or if it’s just something innate in Lincoln’s DNA—this ability to project an aura of complete control even if he doesn’t actually have it.
“We thought he might be interested to know what platform the judge is running on. Does he know that Hollowell is telling private donors the crowning achievement of his term in office will be wiping out the D’Amato drug ring?”
More silence greets Linc’s words.
Then the man moves.
The sudden motion after so much stillness is unnerving, like seeing a statue come to life. His hand slides across the counter and picks up the piece of paper Linc set down, raising it to eye level so he can look at it again.
He goes still again, and just his eyes shift our way as he says, “Come with me.”
He doesn’t wait to see if we’ll respond, just turns and heads through a little door to the back of the shop. This guy has a whole different type of power vibe than any of the kings do. His power is in stillness, in blankness. In a nonchalance so intense it makes my skin prickle.
As if he could kill all of us without a moment’s hesitation or a single regret.
That’s the less-than-comforting thought that fills my mind as we all follow the man into the back. Lincoln leads, Chase grips my hand so hard I swear I can hear my bones creak, and Dax sticks to River’s side like glue.
