Page 87 of Rogue

In Veronica-speak, the message she left on my cell phone could mean a variety of things. Traded up for a newer, faster car. Or traded up on that vacation she’s been pestering Franco about; Geneva, Paris, and a whirlwind tour of an underappreciated yet superexpensive Luxembourg. But judging by the excitement in her tone, I fear her trading up really means traded in. That Franco and his wallet are reassigned to the used-bank-account lot in exchange for someone wealthier.

Whatever news she’s so eager to share, I’m thankful for, because meeting her for lunch puts me back in the game.

You can grieve when you’re dead.

We’ll touch base over lunch. And if luck will have it, they’ll be a new car outside and Franco will be joining us. We’ll catch up like old friends, more talk about Europe, confirmation of the exact date on which Novák’s returning to Shelby.

If he’s not already here, given itisthe first week of the month. All the more reason to hurry the heck up. I quicken my pace as I approach the Pitt.

I’m sweaty from my run, the white shirt with long black sleeves and a Rolling StonesSticky Fingersalbum cover decaled on the front plastered to my skin. Paired with loose khaki pants, a worn pair of sneakers, and a camouflage-colored backpack, I won’t be signing any autographs. But let’s face it, this local eating hole isn’t exactly Nobu or Le Cirque.

The Pitt is exactly as you’d expect from its name. Popular in the fifties, it’s now more of a dive than diner. Its silver rectangular façade is sorely in need of a washing. The neon sign hanging overhead blinked its last blink the day truckers and local riffraff replaced the churchgoing crowd. The five cement steps leading inside are chipped and uneven. An accident waiting to happen.

Yet it’s the only gig in town, which is why it’s still in business. I’d avoid the place like the plague.

I stop to decling my shirt, while wondering about Francis’s progress. My eyes and ears of the past three days—our deal, right? What else has Franco told him? And how much more information does Hayden require, after I gave him the names of cities where Novák is likely conducting business?

I’m about to walk across the parking lot when I happen to look at the steps leading up and into the Pitt and notice the man who has just exited. A case of thinking about a person, and him suddenly appearing.

Francis.

Yet instead of calling out to him and asking him for an update, I tuck back behind a parked car, watching him as he pulls up the collar of his jacket and stalks off in the opposite direction.

Is Franco inside?

Except there’s no limo waiting outside and the driver just walked off.

No way in high hell does Francis even remotely qualify for Veronica’s trade-up. So what is he doing here?

I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes early. Despite my curiosity along with, for whatever reason, the anxious knot that’s formed in the pit of my stomach, I head inside. But intuition goes a long way. Whatever intuition doesn’t cover, experience does. No one leaves Hayden’s Hell Camp unprepared. Something is off.

Something isn’t right.

I slide the small backpack off my shoulder and reach inside. My fingers brush over the leather case of the knife Declan gave me and then a plastic bottle of laxatives before finding the handle of my Ruger. Casually, I turn my back toward the empty checkout counter and secure my gun into the back of my jeans.

I’m prepared for the worst.

Or so I believe, until I spot Veronica and the man seated across from her in the booth at the end of the aisle. Not Franco. Not some random billionaire.

Novák.

Shit. Oh shit.

“Kylie. Over here,” she says, waving me over.

But I’ve got my own angrier waves to deal with along with an undertow of rage spinning me around and trying to drag me under.

Now’s your chance. Sit down. Smile at him. Then take your gun out and shoot him between the eyes. Kill him like he did your dad.

God, I should really call Hayden. Am I expected to gather information directly from the Prick himself?

If that’s the case, what a shame. Because dead men can’t talk. Isn’t that right, Hayden?

I calmly walk toward the booth.

“Kylie, you came,” Veronica exclaims, then shoves over in the booth, making room for me to sit. “I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend.”

I. Can’t. Move. It’s like cement fills my sneakers, rooting me in place and refusing to release me. Preventing me from sliding into the booth and taking my place across from a man I loathe.