I lost my way here with good ol’ Nick Tate.
Because he did the oldest trick in the book on me again.
Look here, not there.
Look at Adam, look at Carter, look at Donovan, look at your girls, look at Sasha.
Look at all the things.
But whatever you do, Merc… do not look at Wendy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - NICK
They call it Old Home, a leftover bit of grandeur from the old days. It’s surrounded on three sides by a lake and the winding, sandy banks of the Old Pearl River. I have never been here, but I’ve relentlessly spied on it over the past several years with high-altitude drones equipped with night vision.
That night vision didn’t do it justice because when I follow Wendy’s truck down the long Spanish oak-lined driveway I almost lose my breath when the house comes into view.
The pecan trees, lush, geometric gardens, and sunset-lit lake are just the icing on the cake that is the mansion. I suddenly feel less of a person for having grown up on a superyacht. For wanting to call a swim platform ‘home’ when Adam Boucher grew up here.
Beyond the house are the infamous woods. Filled with snakes, and gators, and probably even panthers. The entire place smells like… earth. Deep, rich, dark dirt. But not the kind I have up in Nebraska. This earth is overflowing with other things. Magic, maybe.
“Wow.” Merc is craning his neck to get a better look at things. “I was expecting something over the top, but this—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to.
There are already four trucks in the driveway when we pull up, but don’t you worry. There’s room enough for ten more vehicles after we pull in next to them.
Off to the left is a shop that looks like a barn. A man comes out wearing a welding apron and shielding his eyes from the sun glare. McKay. Core McKay. Infamous Zero-girl trainer and constant confidant to Adam. But I barely get a look at him before my attention is pulled over to a little girl on the massive front porch.
A little blonde girl.
I stare at her as an old, familiar feeling rushes through my body.
Then a blonde woman appears. Indie. And I give the little girl a name. Magnolia. So very, very Southern, that name.
There is a moment of heavy hesitation as Indie and I stare at each other through the windshield. She could be Wendy—even after their very different upbringings, they are still that alike.
It’s unsettling.
But then the screen door slaps closed behind Indie and Adam appears behind her.
He could be me. Even after our very different upbringings, we are still that alike.
No, I caution myself internally. My eyes are brown. His are not.
Like there was some kind of cue, we all get out of the trucks at the same time. Wendy walks around the back of my truck, coming up behind me to take my hand. But that silence is back and we all just… stare at each other for a good ten seconds.
Finally, Adam says, “Wendy, would you like to introduce us?”
Of course he says that.
Six Degrees of Wendy Gale.
She is what connects us, not me.
Wendy lets go of my hand, walks over to Adam, leans up on her tiptoes, and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Long time.”
Adam is only looking at me when he answers. “Too long, Wen.”
Wendy turns back to her little band of… whatever we are, and smiles. “Adam, this is Nick. I’m sure you’ve met though, right?”
“No,” I say. “We actually haven’t.”
“Of course,” Adam says. “That was your brother.”
Wendy is a professional. She’s been around more egocentric dangerous men than she could ever hope to count, so she slides right into the other introductions. “Well, that’s McKay.” She points to him as he walks around our little troop and stands at the bottom of the stairs with his arms crossed like he’s some kind of badass bodyguard. Which he is, I suppose.
Wendy grabs Indie’s hand and pulls her in for a hug. Indie hugs her back, and they don’t cut it short, either. They take their hello seriously. Wendy has her back to me so at first I don’t realize they’re talking, but then I catch Indie’s lips moving as they whisper greetings, or secrets, or, hell, threats for all I know.
But probably not threats, because Wendy is smiling a real smile—it’s sad, so it’s real—when she turns back to us and says, “And that’s Maggie.”
Maggie beams her smile right at me. “Nick. Nick. Nick.” She says it like maybe she’s trying out my name the way any normal kid might. But then again, maybe she’s just committing my face to memory so she can kill me later.
“Where’s Nathan?” I ask. He’s the only one, aside from Wendy, who I know up close and personal.
“He’s across the lake right now. We’re building a house over there.”