“That wasn’t there ten minutes ago when we came outside for Watts to smoke,” Zeke said. “Is someone…is someone playing a sick joke?”

“It’s more than one person,” I said. “One guy couldn’t do all of that in the amount of time he had.”

“Agreed,” Harbinger said.

The screen door opened one more time, and Trex turned. Peter was holding a beer now that the wine was gone, recoiling at the mess in the yard. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” Trex said, glowering.

We peered out over the rabbit carcasses lying in the dead grass, lit up with six heavy-duty flashlights, forming just one word: MINE.

chapter twenty-five

sticks and stories

Zeke

T

he large black trash bag Naomi held rattled each time the guys pitched in a new double-handful of dead rabbits.

“Get a move on, guys. Darby will be out in a few minutes, and Trex wants this gone,” she said. Damn, it turns me on when she orders grown men around.

I approached her with my own handful. “This is a shit ton of animals.”

“Yep,” she said.

I didn’t like it when she acted like I was just one of the guys, and it was impossible not to show my disappointment, which she loved. At least she loved something about me. I was batting way out of my league, and we both knew it, but dead animals were a whole new level of romantic gestures—if anyone could even call it that. No, definitely not. Naomi could handle herself, but she was being harassed. I wondered how long it had been going on and why she hadn’t told me.

Martinez dumped in some more limp carcasses, then Harbinger, then Sloan, then Peter.

“What do you think they meant?” I asked.

Naomi frowned. “They?”

“The people who did this. Mine must mean something. Who would do this to you?”

She let go of one side of the bag, using her wrist to brush a thick strand of sweaty hair from her face. “It wasn’t for me.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“Naomi…” I began. The fact that she hadn’t told me and was now keeping it from me didn’t help one fucking bit.

“Remember when I said there were things I couldn’t tell you? This is one of them. You don’t have to worry about me anyway. You know that.”

Harbinger and Kitsch traded looks.

I glanced inside the trash bag. “Whoever did this is sick. It happened in your front yard. I’d still be worried if you had superhuman strength and could fly.”

“You assume I don’t have superpowers? That hurts.” She jutted out her lip.

Martinez chuckled.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” I said, frustrated. “That just makes me worry more.”