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“Yeah?” I said around a mouthful of Chimi burger. “I may have to visit just for the food.”
“My abuela will cook for you. Say the word and I’ll let her know.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” I stuck out my hand again and we shook on it.
Ridley looked from me to Dex, a tiny line between her eyes.
“What?” I said. “I mean it. This food is good, and I love the islands.”
“You’ve been?” Dex asked.
“Not to the Dominican Republic.” I was about to tell him about my family’s private island off the coast of Florida when I recalled I wasn’t supposed to be a rich man. “But a few other islands—St. John’s, Puerto Rico, Haiti. On business.”
He gave a knowing nod. I was pretty sure he thought “business” meant “illegal drugs,” when actually I’d been coordinating medical crews in the aftermath of hurricanes, but he stopped asking questions.
Ridley’s room was on the second floor. To get there we had to climb a ladder. Upstairs were three bedrooms and a bathroom. Ridley’s was the room on the end.
It was hot and cramped and airless, with barely enough for a queen-sized mattress and a chair. The only lighting came from a bulb screwed into a ceiling fixture. The two windows were closed and covered with cheap brown blinds.
Ridley sent me an apologetic look. “I know, it’s like an oven up here. And smelly.” She wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t been here for a while.”
She set her backpack on the chair and turned the window air conditioning unit on high.
“Dex liked you.” She examined me like that was something suspicious.
“Yeah? Good. I liked him too.”
She grunted. “Humans like you. You’re good with them.”
“Doesn’t mean I take advantage of them.”
She pursed her lips. “No, I don’t think you do. But before I met you, I thought you did.”
Well, hallelujah. The wall of her suspicion had developed a crack.
“I figured you used your volunteer work to cover up work you did for your father’s syndicate,” she added, “or to troll for thralls. Or both.”
I expelled a breath. “You must think I’m a first-class asshole.”
“Not anymore. But all you syndicate men are entitled pricks.”
“Well, fuck you too.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Hey, I call them like I see it.”
Something about her expression—dark, but because she was remembering something—made me move closer.
“What happened?” I softened my tone. “This isn’t just about you being a slayer, is it? Something happened to make you hate the syndicates.”
She looked down and to the side as if trying to decide how much to tell me. Then she raised her head and gave me a clear-eyed gray look that almost made me take a step back.
“My mom was murdered by syndicate vampires.”
A sharp shard of compassion lodged in my chest. “I’m sorry.”
She gave a little shake of her head, like she didn’t want my concern. “It was a long time ago.”
“When?”
