Page 49 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

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We return home to change.

Dante sets his masterpiece out on the porch. Shooting tiny pinprick of trembling light across the side of the house. I watch him from the doorway, amused by his excitement as he gets it just right.

Dusting his hands, he steps back to examine his work. His cluster of pumpkins sits next to a small table holding a bowl of candy.

I don’t have the heart to tell him we don’t get kids out this far. Maybe the Rowes. I make a mental note to text Kimmie and ask her to bring the kids and to take the whole bowl so it’s empty when Dante gets back.

He straightens and pops his hands on his hips. “There. Kids can see it from the road.”

I go to him and kiss him. “Definitely.”

His dark eyes drift down the driveway. “What time do they start showing up?”

The younger kids would already be done and at home by now. The others mostly stick around town .

“Should be any minute. Let’s get ready.”

He follows me back inside.

“When our baby is born, we should hit the town. We might be too far for trick or treaters, or the good candy.”

I chuckle. “We’ll see a lot more kids at the festival. Which reminds me, we need to stop by and see Daisy.”

He doesn’t argue taking my car. He palms my keys and opens the passenger’s side door for me. I catch him eyeing the dent still flecking burgundy paint.

“Sure wish I met the guy,” he mutters as I slip past him into my seat.

“It’s fine. In the end, we’re even.”

Damage wise, but he definitely wins in being a creep, which I don’t tell Dante.

He just gives a grunt and shuts my door.

Thistle Row Fairground sites in a wide acre of land hidden behind miles of wilderness and the odd farm.

It’s half backed in by the Sutton’s corn crop.

Jasper and Felicity’s family volunteer every year to build the corn maze and give the hayrides.

Their dad, Landon Sutton, took over the operation after Wayland Sutton, their grandfather, had a stroke.

Nothing’s changed.

The festival is a chaos of noise and screaming. The handful of rides built back before Jesus was born spin and whir in the settling dusk. Their lights flare over the bustling crowd, illuminating grinning faces.

It always amuses me how the good people of Jefferson miraculously seem to forget who runs the fair every year. The people responsible for manning every ride, overseeing every booth — minus the ones booked by residents.

“Have you heard about The Ditch?” I shout up at Dante.

His brows furrow like he’s not sure he heard me properly over the clanging and commotion.

“Ditch?”

I gesture in the general direction of where Old Miller’s Bridge separates the good people of Jefferson from ... the others.

“It’s where people who don’t conform to the rules get sent. It’s where the criminals live, according to Jefferson.”

Dante continues to watch me with confusion, and I realize I started the conversation in the middle of my thoughts.

“The Ditch runs the festival. So, every year, we come to a place we’re not wanted to get entertained by people who hate us.”

Dante rubs a hand under his face. “Good grief.”

I nod, lips pulling into a line. “Yup. This could all turn into a red Halloween if they decide to kill us all.”

“Well, better get some cotton candy before I go.”

Both of us chuckling, we step into line for tickets .

The woman in the wooden booth stares straight into my eyes when we approach. Hers, darker than Dante’s and circled by thick, black liner drill straight into my soul. I feel a shudder course through me.

“Two?” she barks in a voice dragged through hot coals, sooty and rough.

Dante pulls out his wallet and hands over several bills that she doesn’t accept. Her entire focus is on me. On my face. She’s searching every line like she’s painting me to memory. There’s a growing knot between her wide, protruding eyes.

She has to be in her late fifties with a wild mane of black curls pulled back from her withered face by a silk scarf. Scarlet lipstick bleeds through the cracks around her pursed lips.

But it’s the way her long, gem studded fingers curl around a deck of cards that has me swallowing audibly.

“No charge, but you,” she stabs a finger at me, “I see a dark aura in your future. You come see me later.”

Two wristbands are slapped on the table.

I don’t reach for them, but Dante does. And still, he leaves the money. He nudges me away from the booth and the woman watching me like I stole something.

I’m vaguely aware of the man behind us taking our place and being charged.

“But you didn’t charge them,” he argues .

To which the woman replies, “I like them. I don’t like you. Twenty dollars.”

“You okay?” Dante touches my lower back lightly.

I nod, rubbing a hand down my arm littered with goosebumps. “She was a little intense. That’s all.”

He presses a kiss to my temple. “It’s probably part of the show. She was holding tarot cards. Most likely, she wants you to come to her tent later so she can tell you your fortune for a fee.”

Most likely, he’s right. But something about the way she demanded I meet her later .

.. Obviously, she wants to sell me something, but it still takes several minutes to shake the chill scuttling down my spine.

One thing is for sure, I will not be going anywhere near her tent.

In fact, there is no place I will be avoiding more.

Thoughts of the woman fade as Dante and I walk through the maze of machines and bodies, our fingers tightly interlocked.

The crowd consists of families with children. The little ones scream and run between our legs, fingers sticky, faces colored with delight and flashing lights. Some wear painted masks. A few are tangled in their costumes, causing a world of fury as their parents try to dislodge them.

“Still want kids?” I tease Dante while we watch a princess scream at a decibel level that could shatter glass because her cotton candy slipped off the cardboard cone .

Her mom stares at her with a mixture of exhaustion and barely restrained patience while the eight-year-old stomps her glittery shoes and throws down her plastic crown and bag of popcorn. The mother’s lips turn down when the bag flips open and upends half the contents.

“We are going home!” the mother snarls.

The girls’ ear-splitting shriek follows us as we pass the pair and continue to the Ferris wheel.

“Oh, I can’t wait,” Dante sighs, slipping an arm around my middle and hauling me into his side. “And my princess would never.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “Not even born and already getting coddled.”

“Look, she’s going to have two parents who love the shit out of her. Who look after her, protect her and raise her to be a functional member of society. Sure, she’ll do stupid stuff, test boundaries, but that’s how you learn, and we’ll be there when she needs us.”

Head nestled on his shoulder, I tilt my face up to his. “And if it’s a boy?”

“Same thing. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. Point is, we’re going to be great parents, baby. Our kids are going to be so loved and wanted.”

I’m thinking how nice that sounds when my name gets shouted over the din. My head turns, but Dante is faster.

He jerks me in the opposite direction, arms crushing me as he puts himself between me and the twin demons with water pistols.

Over my head, he grunts as he takes the assault meant for me. His arms unfold as he crumples to the ground with a dramatic cry of anguish.

“They got me!” he wails.

Several feet away at the water game station, Jeremy and Logan Rowe roar in triumph. The water guns anchored to the booth by rusted chains clatter as they hold them over their heads.

At my feet Dante plays dead which only amuses the two to no end.

“Boys!” Still in her Mama May’s uniform, Kimmie wrestles the guns from her twins and glowers down at their grinning faces. “You can’t spray people!”

Revived, Dante leaps to his feet, hands dusting his backside.

“No harm done,” he assures her, then says, “Hey, I remember you.” He turns to me but gestures to Kimmie. “She’s the one who told me you like the fried chicken.”

I introduce the group.

Kimmie makes the boys apologize, but Dante waves it away. Instead, he sprints to the games and demands they show him how it works. The boys scramble after him, as delighted as he is, leaving me alone with a tired-faced and mildly amused Kimmie.

“He seems really nice,” she remarks.

I fold my arms and watch Dante’s wet back. “Yeah, he is.”

She nudges me playfully with an elbow. “I heard what he said to Dolores. I wasn’t there but I would give up a week of pay to see it.”

I can only offer a grunt as I try not to let my brain spiral with all the what-ifs. “He’s certainly vocal.”

“Maybe we need more vocal, hm?” Her head cocks as we both watch Dante badly lose to the boys in a game I could have won with my eyes closed. “Sure is good with kids, though.”

She gives me a wicked little grin that has my cheeks warming.

“Actually, before I forget, can you do me a huge favor?”

After explaining the candy incident, Kimmie aws loudly and claps a hand over her chest.

“What a sweetheart. Of course I’ll grab those on my way home.”

I’m just thanking her when the team returns. Somehow, Dante is even wetter. Logan is a close second with Jeremy grinning like he’s the king of the world .

“Jeremy Rowe! You have some explaining to do.”

I take Dante’s hand, and we leave the trio with a wave.

That seems to be the consensus with most of the people we encounter. Despite his rough, tattooed exterior, everyone seems to love him, and he just fits. He adapts. He asks the right questions and answers in a way people respond to.

By the time we loop towards the far, back corner where Daisy is, I’m pretty sure Mayor Ferguson has some competition. At the most, Dante might get voted to get the key to the town.

“You’re very good with people,” I remark.

Dante gives a weak laugh and runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I read a book about it. I wasn’t sure I was doing it right. It’s scarier in person.”