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That’s the way this works.
There’s no such thing as a relationship where people don’t fight—little tiffs, disagreements over the direction of the toilet roll, a shitty comment causing hurt, stress building up until someone explodes.
For two normal people, it’s impossible to fit your rough edges together without a little friction now and then.
What makes shit work is being willing to sand those rough edges down and work together to get past the grit.
You have to talk it out and remember why you still love each other.
That’s what I want with Delilah. With our tempers, there’s no way we’d never fight again, even if we made up tomorrow.
But I want my tomorrow.
I want a chance to hash it out after we’ve both cooled down and realized how ridiculous we’re being, only to laugh and kiss each other and forget about it till one of us brings our spikes out again.
Trouble is, I can’t get to tomorrow when I’m stuck worrying about today.
About this whole damn week.
The planned raid on the Jacobins that the captain signed off on is looming. Both their farm and—if we can find it—wherever they’ve set up their still.
All we’ve got is circumstantial evidence. No real grounds for arrests that won’t get laughed out of court in ten minutes.
Still, I want on that property and I’ll turn over every fucking stone and hay bale and five hundred pound hog if I have to.
If it means finding evidence that one of those redneck zombie assholes killed Delilah’s ex to scare her to death.
As much as it kills me to say it, this is more important than going to Delilah and ripping out my heart right now.
This is about keeping her safe.
Every day I throw myself into planning with my team, and the small squad sent in from Raleigh, I remember that.
We’re poring over a hastily drawn-up map of the hills around town, marking the best spots for a vantage point, plotting timing, entry and exit points.
If we’re being honest, we have no fucking clue how many of them are up there.
The Jacobins are their own clan and they’re secretive as hell. Some of the people out there are probably not even related by blood—at least, I hope, since they seem to marry among themselves.
They might as well be a whole separate village on Redhaven’s periphery.
We’re heading into uncharted waters, and I’m going to have to trust Grant, Henri, and Micah.
If we function like a team, we just might pull this off.
The problem is finding that fucking still.
If we’re chasing actionable evidence, it’s going to be there.
I know damn well Chief Bowden has some idea where it might be. That’s part of his whole thing with kindly looking the other way when a little bootleg whiskey isn’t something worth calling in a SWAT team or causing a big ruckus.
Of course, he’s out sick from work now.
Like he ever does anything, but the second we started talking about the raid, he staggered out like he had the fucking vapors.
The heat, he said. Getting too old for this late summer swelter.
Uh-huh.
Maybe I’m too suspicious, but that sure as hell doesn’t hold water with me.
I don’t have time to think about it, though.
Two more days.
Two more days till we go in hot, tactical gear and all.
I’m nervous as hell—and after Grant caught me at his desk again, going over the map for the fiftieth time, he kicked me out to do a coffee run for everyone.
That’s how much of a pain in the ass I’m being.
I’ve been demoted to coffee boy.
Then again, I guess a little fresh air won’t hurt, so I head out, squinting against the midmorning sun.
It’s Saturday—I think?
I feel like goddamned Gollum coming out of a dark cave, shrinking away from the blinding sun.
Just living feels real weird right now when I’ve been up in my own head for days with this case, and when I’m not working it, I’m working myself in circles over Delilah.
Days.
Days without a word, though I’ve seen her now and then around town. Her car passes by the station on her way to and from school. I’ve also seen her when she’s on her lunch break in the café with Nora.
Or with Ulysses fucking Arrendell.
Yeah, don’t like that, and I can’t help but wonder.
Does she feel so unsafe in this town, with me, that she’d turn to him for security?
I don’t want to believe it.
Especially when every time I see them together, Delilah looks as stiff as a board.
I don’t think Ulysses even notices, chattering on like the entire universe revolves around him and his every word is a gift to the little people.
It’s the third time I’ve seen them together in under a week, and always at this little coffee shop or walking around the town square.
I’m no psych profiler, but I’d bet my house that Ulysses Arrendell is a classic narcissist—and I think I’d win.
