Page 68 of The Hive Queen

I flick a finger out and turn on the blinker, then take the left once the light turns green.

Two blocks down, I pull up to the bright, white-and-orange sign displaying a variety of fried chicken options.

The speaker crackles, followed by a bored voice, “Bucket-O-Wings, where life tastes better deep fried. How may I help you?”

I look at Sharpe. “What’s your poison?”

A little green around the edges, he peers at the sign. “Corn chowder and a Cluck Wrap, no ranch.”

I relay his order, adding a chicken sandwich with nothing on it for Anny, then pull forward to pay at the window and accept the food.

Thrusting the bag at him, I drive around to the dark parking lot and pull into one of the dozen empty spots.

Sharpe reaches into the bag and pulls out the sandwich first, setting it on the center cushion before he pulls out the chowder. He cracks the lid, then blanches and snaps it back on, going for the Cluck Wrap instead.

“If you feel that bad, you should have stayed home and waited for your egg drop soup and rice.” I lean forward, nudging Anny to the side to search under the bench seat for the first aid kit we stash there. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.” He peels back the corner of the wrap and takes a bite, chewing and swallowing methodically. “The waiting room at the hospital got to me.”

I frown and set the kit on the seat between us. “Why were you at the hospital?”

“Pen’s bee sting was infected.” He forces down another bite. “Doctor drained it.”

Worry fills me, and I absently push Anny’s snout away from the too-hot sandwich. “Pen never gets sick.”

“I think it’s related to the Hive Queen. Pen was stung at the first crime scene here.” He takes a sip of lemon-lime soda. “We should check hospital records for an increased report of bee stings.”

I grab my phone. “I’ll text Pen to...” My hand clenches around my phone before I toss it into the cup holder. “Fuck. This sucks.”

Anny lets out a whine, hunkering down on the floor.

Sharpe continues to eat until he finishes the wrap.

Balling up the paper, he tosses it into the bag and takes the first aid kit from me to dig out the aspirin he asked for. He pops two pills, chases them with soda, then goes back for the chowder.

When his spoon scrapes on the bottom of the cardboard cup, it kills my last shred of patience. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m wrong? Isn’t that why you came with me?”

He sucks the last of the chowder off his spoon before responding. “Do you think you’re wrong?”

“Am I?” I slam a hand against the steering wheel. “Up until the end, I thought we were all still on theWe Hate Dariustrain. When did that change?”

Sharpe stays silent.

“Just because I can touch people’s souls doesn’t mean I can read their minds. If things changed, they should have told me!” My hands clench with helpless frustration. “How could they forgive what he did?”

“I’m sorry, Flint,” Sharpe says into the silence.

Crossing my arms over the steering wheel, I drop my head onto them. “I don’t blame you for not hating him. You don’t even remember why you should.”

“No, I’m sorry I forgot us.” Sharpe turns in his seat, resting his back against the door to face me. “I’m sorry I’m not who I used to be for you.”

I turn my head to stare at him. “Honestly, I don’t think reading your book hurt your chances of regaining your memory. The window to recover it is so small that, after the first day, it’s nearly impossible. So don’t be sorry.”

Warmth fills his voice. “We were confidants.”

I smile at that. “Pen and Marc are shit when it comes to spellcraft. All they care about is fire. You were the only one who understood magic theory.”

Sharpe’s gaze drops to his hands. “I can’t even imagine that right now.”

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