Page 79 of Dreadful

There's more I could tell her. And usually, I would.

She’s my person—the one I tell everything to, and for one reckless second, the words crowd the back of my throat.

I could tell her about what happened. About Bishop and the way his voice gave me something to follow when I couldn't see anything else. How terrified I'd been when I saw the knife at his throat. How it felt to pull the trigger and know without a single doubt that I would do it again.

I could tell her about the way he kissed me afterward. And what happened against that wall. She’d probably high five me and demand every filthy detail.

But then I’d have to tell her what happened after… and I’m doing everything possible to not think about that.

My face heats, and I drop my eyes to my drink, dragging my straw through the ice.

The bell above the diner door jingles, and my attention shifts toward the sound automatically.

Ryder Mercer stands just inside the doorway in jeans and a dark long-sleeve T-shirt, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, sunglasses covering half his face, and a scarf wrapped around his neck despite it being eighty degrees outside.

I stare at him.

Lola follows my gaze. “Is he fucking serious?”

“Apparently.”

He spots us and crosses the diner, checking over his shoulder twice on the way over. The sunglasses stay firmly in place even though we’re indoors, which somehow makes every attempt at discretion exponentially worse. He walks like a man who’s convinced someone is watching, shoulders angled, one hand riding loose at his hip.

“Hey.” He slides into the booth across from us, vinyl creaking under him.

“Take those off.” I gesture at him.

Lola looks him up and down. “You look ridiculous.”

“Hello to you too,” he mutters, unwinding the scarf from his neck. He folds it once, twice, then tosses it onto the table. His mouth tightens as he glances between us. “I can’t be seen with you guys. Not if we move forward with this.”

“You're only drawing more attention to yourself.” I gesture around us with my cup. “Chill out. There's no one here.”

All three of us look anyway. The café is empty—no customers in any of the booths, no one waiting by the register. Even the barista behind the counter is gone, dipped into the back little kitchen where they make their limited food menu. Somewhere back there a radio plays low, a country station bleeding through the wall.

There isn’t even a single camera that I can see—no little black domes in the corners, no blinking lights near the door—which isn’t foolproof, but it’s a good start. The best we’re going to get without doing proper recon. And I’m not wasting our time for a conversation that may not even pan out.

He shifts in his seat, eyes darting between Lola and me like a caged animal. Sunlight slices through the café window, glinting off his mirrored aviators. “I thought you were bringing this to the Calloways?” His voice is calm but loaded, each syllable edged with expectation.

“Are you disrespecting my sister?” Lola levels him with a look that threatens violence.

He looks at her. “I asked her a question.”

She leans forward, that same lethal grin on her face. “Don’t piss me off, Mercer.”

“You asked for a chat, so here I am. If you’ve changed your mind, that’s fine. We’ll go.” I press my palms to the table, like I’m going to stand up.

“Wait, no. Don’t—don’t leave.” The irritation disappears from Ryder's face as he pulls off his sunglasses. “What I'm about to tell you is classified.” His voice drops. “The kind of classified that'll get me thrown in a hole if they don't shoot me first.”

I sit back against the booth. “We’re listening.”

“Well.” Lola glances between us. “This suddenly got less fun.”

“Yeah.” Ryder looks at me. “It did.”

I wrap my hand around my iced latte. “Then talk.”

Ryder glances toward the counter before leaning closer. “I've heard stories over the years. Guys in other units. Friends of friends. Money disappearing during transfers. Equipment that never made it where it was supposed to go. Shit like that.”