Page 34 of Dreadful

Just wait.

“And who did you call when you killed that kid, honey?” Coco says, drawing me out of my silent conversation with Lola.

Rafe sucks in a sharp breath, tension radiating from him in thick waves. “Careful, Ma. We both know I didn’t kill that kid—or any kid.”

Her chin tips up just enough to change the angle of her gaze. “Oh no?” She sets her mimosa down without a sound. “I didn’t spend days negotiating with those motherfucking Devil’s Hand so they didn’t put a bullet in your head and drop you in the ocean?”

Rafe pivots forward, one elbow on the table, his shoulder blocking part of my view. I can’t see his expression, but I can see the tendon running up the side of his neck. “Sure. But I more than paid it back, didn’t I? How many times did I bleed for you after that? A dozen? Two? Fucking twenty?”

“Careful now, honey.” Coco’s smile is slow and surgical.

Rafe exhales once through his nose and settles back. “Mm.”

She doesn’t let the silence breathe long. Her attention swings to Bishop the way a compass needle swings north—like there was never any question where it would end up. “And you. My oldest.” Her nail resumes its slow tap against the rim of her glass. “Were you protecting me when I showed up to that police station at two in the morning and made sure your name never made it onto a single piece of paper?”

“I was a kid.” Bishop’s jaw shifts once. “And we both know how I ended up there.”

Coco makes a sound in her throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Something sharper than both. She sets her mimosa down and folds her hands in front of her on the table, the way a woman does when she’s deciding how much rope to give you. “Mm. That’s right.” Her eyes move across all four of them slowly, one at a time, like she’s taking attendance. “You’re all so grown now. Grown enough to run the family without me.” She lets that sit for a moment. “Because I’ll tell you something. When Devil’s Hand has you trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys”—she pauses, brows arching with a small, almost pleasant shrug—“I’ll be halfway across the country with a cocktail in my hand. So think carefully about what you’re asking for.”

“It’s for your protection,” Gage says.

Coco’s head turns toward him slowly. “Hm.” A single syllable, placed like a chess piece.

“We just want you safe, Ma.”

She nods then—a few small, measured nods, the kind that don’t mean agreement so much as patience. Her attention moves to Cruz. “And you. What are your thoughts on this plan?”

Cruz exhales through his nose and slides back in his chair, one hand scrubbing through his hair. “I think two MCs moving on us simultaneously turns it into a situation we’re not prepared for yet. And I think”—his eyes cut briefly sideways—“if we know you’re somewhere out of reach, it’ll give us peace of mind.”

Something moves behind Coco’s eyes. She lifts her mimosa, drinks slowly, and returns it to the table without a sound. “I’ll need a few days to arrange things.” Her gaze drifts to Bishop, then angles deliberately toward Lola and me. “I assume the girls are being sent away as well?”

Gage’s voice is low, a solid wall. “Not happening.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Cruz shakes his head slowly.

“No.” Rafe’s word is a lazy drawl, but his arm comes down heavy over the back of my chair, his knuckles grazing the bare skin of my neck. Possession in the brush of a thumb.

I say “Yes” at the same moment, leaning around Lola to catch Bishop’s cold stare. “Your mother is leaving. And so is my sister.”

A muscle feathers once along Bishop’s jaw. His eyes hold mine, and for a second I see something flash across his expression.

“You really think that’s smart?” His voice is dangerously level. “Letting your sister go home, where the MCs can pick her off easily?”

I meet his challenge, refusing to back down. “She's not going home. And she's a lot safer out there than sitting here. They know where you live, don’t they?”

Rafe’s fingers dance along the collar of my shirt.

Bishop looks over my head toward Rafe. "You don't have anything to say about this?"

Rafe says, “if she wants her sister to go, then her sister can go. If she wants her here, she can stay here.”

Gage methodically folds his burrito foil into a tight, silver square. “So we’re really doing this.”

“Let's call it a soft lockdown,” Bishop murmurs.

“For how long?” Gage asks.

Bishop’s exhale is controlled, a measured release of air. He leans back slightly, shoulders squaring. “The Widowmakers and Devil’s Hand could move today. Tomorrow. Next week. We don’t know when, but we need to be prepared.”