Page 160 of Mason

“About David Eddy?” I ask. “Because if that’s why you’re here, you’ll need her lawyer to be present. And paperwork.”

“She’s not under arrest.”

“She doesn’t need to be.”

The words hang heavy in the air. The kind of tension you could cut your teeth on.

He studies me again—like I’m a crime scene he hasn’t finished piecing together. And then, like clockwork, the smirk creeps in.

“You look like hell,” he says.

“Been a long night.”

“Doing what?”

I meet his eyes dead-on. “Taking out the trash.” I’m not afraid to let him know there’s a special place in hell for those that cross us.

He doesn’t respond. But I can see him registering it. The implication. The truth hiding in plain sight.

Maxine murmurs, “Oh boy,” behind me. Mia hums something that sounds like a prayer. Shelby says nothing, but I feel the weight of her watching me.

Saxon finally says, “You sure you want to go down this road?”

“You sure you want to keep standing on my fucking porch?”

A pause.

A slow exhale.

Then I say what we both know is the real question here: “Still want to talk to her?”

He holds my gaze. Doesn’t blink.

Then shakes his head. “Not tonight. But it’s coming. You know that.”

“And when it does, I’ll be ready.”

He starts to turn, but I’m not done.

“Saxon.”

He stops on the second step.

“Next time you want to see Shelby, don’t show up on my doorstep. Send paperwork.”

His jaw tightens. But he doesn’t argue.

He walks off into the dark without another word.

Good.

Because tonight?

I’m not in the mood for mercy.

And the last thing I need is a Fed sniffing around my doorstep while my knuckles are still stained with my own brand of justice.

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