Page 76 of Homecoming

“Whose identity I still need to pin down. My guess is it’s the same friend from the café.”

“A guy can have more than one friend.”

“Not this one, I don’t think,” she mused; didn’t mean it as an insult, but had gleaned something. A gut feeling. Usually, those were correct when they were Eden’s. “Any little wanker could get fixated on a girl, it’s true,” she elaborated, “but this feels different. This feels like he doesn’t have much, and like he took her refusal far, far too personally.”

“So he and Café Boy did it together.”

“And got back to the party before Mr. Henderson arrived?” He couldn’t see her face, but he could envision her arching a single brow well enough. “I don’t have that much faith in their stealth or cunning. Even if they left the party, and followed her; even if Jimmy Connors killed her – someone else left that yellow tag to be found. Someone else disposed of her.” She finally spun the chair a fraction, far enough for him to see thatbothher brows were raised. “If she’s even dead.”

“There’s been no note, no phone call,” he reminded. “No proof of life.”

“Maybe that’s because whoever took her isn’t planning to offer it. Maybe it’s not a ransom.”

He lifted one of his brows in silent question.

“She’s a pretty girl, Charlie. And who do we know who likes to collect pretty American girls and keep them locked in barns until they can be sold?”

He felt a quick pulse ofmaybe. Her idea had merit, certainly, and Luis had told Candy they hadn’t seen the last of him. If that fed Maddox – ex-fed, he supposed – had been telling the truth, then this was becoming a trend within the broader outlaw community. Luis could have friends; could have resources.

“His calling card was a star, not a triangle,” he reminded.

“Hm.” She turned back to the photos. “I have a few more interviews to conduct. Ghost said he’d put me in contact with the police lieutenant.”

“You’ll be busy, then.”

“Most of the day. Dinner at eight?”

“Yeah. Keep me posted.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, to which she murmured a soft, wordless response. Then he headed for Dartmoor.

He was on Industrial, a quarter-mile from the edge of the Dartmoor property, riding along the river – glinting in the morning light – when he spotted a familiar figure jogging along the shoulder.

Tenny wore compression leggings and a compression shirt, the fabric black, and clinging. Unforgiving. Fox knew all its advantages, and Tenny did, too; this wasn’t a jog, actually, but a run. A hard one. His muscles would be screaming, his lungs burning. His face, when Fox pulled up alongside him, was red and streaming sweat, despite the mild morning temperature, and his scowl had pressed lines into his forehead.

Fox kept pace with him a while, but when it became obvious he wasn’t going to turn his head and acknowledge him, he rode on. Got to the clubhouse, went in for a cup of coffee, and was sitting on a picnic table out front, having a smoke, when Tenny loped across the lot and finally fell into an exhausted, ground-eating walk a few yards away.

Fox had brought a water bottle out with him, and he lifted it now, so the sun glinted off the stainless steel: an offering.

Tenny spotted him, and debated a moment, standing expressionless. He peeled up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, and then finally approached. He took the bottle with a quiet, “Ta,” then sat beside Fox and drank it down in long, slow swallows, gasping after.

Fox nursed his coffee, and said, “I thought you and Reese ran together most mornings.”

“No. Sometimes. Not most.”

“Not this morning.”

“No.”

“Were you not invited to Mercy’s for dinner last night?”

“Mercy didn’t invite me.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Fox turned to look at him and found a perfect mask in place. He looked tired, and bored, and indifferent. But his long fingers tapped softly against the water bottle, betraying the amount of feeling that he’d so carefully concealed. “Why didn’t you go?”

Tenny’s lip pulled back into his familiar, scornful sneer. As manufactured as every other part of this performance, but it would have looked real to a civilian. “Why would I? I don’t want to spend time with those people.”

“What about Reese? He’s the only one you ever want to spend time with. He went.”

Tenny met his gaze, and Fox could see the way his flickered, his control fraying. His tone was flat, still, when he said, “Why do you care?”

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