Daniel nodded. “I found it this morning when I took her car into the trail to work on the bridges. I got stuck on a rock, and as I went to check on the damage to the undercarriage, that’s when I saw it. I wasn’t sure exactly what the device was, until that man followed us in here.”
“This acreage is huge. How did he know where you two were in some deer stand?”
“He didn’t,” Daniel countered. “He was looking for her randomly and got lucky. And he’s still out there looking for her.”
“I was the one who talked to the media,” Lydia said. “I know you’ve seen the news, or been contacted yourself by WNDK. I did call them about Corrington, and if that hotel can poison wolves, they can do worse. Peter Wynne—well, something’s happened to him, hasn’t it. And I don’t care if my story doesn’t make sense to you because I know what I’ve seen and I know who was behind my car and then looking for us in these trees.”
Eastwind gave her her phone back. “I wish you’d called me on Sunday.”
“Me too, but I didn’t want to overreact. After this, though …” She toed at the pine needles. “I don’t want whatever was done to Peter Wynne to happen to me.”
“How do you know anything was done to him?”
“You didn’t want to leave his house.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “There’s a news truck over there and two other sheriff’s cars. Considering there are four officers in your department, including yourself, you’ve called in every one of them except the guy off duty this afternoon.”
“Where’s this GPS locator?” Eastwind glanced at Daniel. “Let me guess, you took it off and threw it away.”
“Damn right I did. When we got up to the road, I threw it in the back of a truck.”
“You’re a sharpshooter, then.”
“Not at all.” Daniel shrugged. “They stopped to ask if we needed a lift. I tossed it in the open bed.”
“So you were willing to possibly endanger someone else?”
“They’re looking for her. They don’t care about anyone else.”
“And let me guess,” Eastwind said to Lydia. “Neither of you know who was driving that truck. Or got its license plate.”
Lydia slowly shook her head. “No, we didn’t.”
“Can you even tell me what color it was,” the sheriff drawled.
Like he wasn’t buying a goddamn word they were speaking.
THAT NIGHT, BACK down in Caldwell at the Brotherhood mansion’s dining room table, Xhex finally figured out what the hell was going on with her nightmares. She hadn’t been looking for the revelation. Ever since V had dropped his vision bullshit on her, she had filed both that happy little exchange and her piranha wake-up calls in the giant black hole in her brain entitled: Not Fucking Now, Not Fucking Ever.
Destiny, however, was like poison ivy. Once it brushed up against you, it was tenacious, irritating—and the kind of thing that did not go away on its own.
So there she was, sitting next to John Matthew at First Meal, blithely pushing some eggs around on her plate and hoping like hell he didn’t notice how much she wasn’t eating … when she happened to look across the enormous table.
Darius, who had built the mansion long before the Brothers had even had a thought of living under one roof together, had created a dining room big enough to fit a city and the table he’d commissioned held its own in the cavernous space. All of the fighters, their mates, their children—and various special guests—could be accommodated down its flanks.
And God knew Fritz was a more-the-merrier kind of butler. If that male could feed a thousand every night right after the sun went down? Happy doggen.
The din of conversation could get to be a little intense, though, all the Brothers talking over each other as a matter of practice, the dick swinging and ball busting clearly part of their job description. And she looked up only because Rhage started to laugh at something Butch had said to Lassiter … and no matter what mood she was in, Hollywood throwing his model-perfect head back and belly-chuckling it until he turned beet red and had to wipe his eyes with his damask napkin was something worth witnessing.
It was like a corgi puppy trying to bite a tennis ball. Worth the eyeball time.
While she was watching Rhage yuck it up, something in her peripheral vision registered, a little cognitive bell getting rung.
Turning her head, she was surprised at the hi-how-ya that her instincts were floating. Nate, adopted son of Murhder and Sarah, was minding his own business. In fact, he had retracted from his rather large size, his shoulders curved in, his chin down, his elbows tight to his torso—like he desperately didn’t want to get noticed.
She knew why.
In spite of the fact that the kid had every right to be sitting in his chair—and even though Nate was only a “kid” by virtue of having recently gone through his transition—he was awkward and overwhelmed.