With that declaration, he finally gets out of my way. And this time, he walks around me, heading toward the dirt road where his motorcycle is parked—something else I didn't notice when I was approaching the house.

When he reaches his bike, he pulls out a helmet and holds it out to me.

“So what do you say, angel?” he asks. “You coming or what?”

CHAPTER 13

Am I coming?

Aargh.

Of course, I’m coming. Who could not come after a build-up like that?

I walk over and snatch the helmet from him.

But I don’t take the hand he holds out to help me onto the bike. I get on the back of his motorcycle by myself, refusing to acknowledge him. Or the decision I just made. Even after he climbs on, and it’s time for me to hold tight again.

He doesn’t put on a helmet himself. Just turns on the motorcycle and sends us roaring up the trailer town’s center road.

Riding on the back of his bike isn’t as bad this time, I have to admit. It’s been almost two weeks since Delaware, and I’m no longer sore and bruised. So I can enjoy the rush of sailing through town on a motorcycle. If I were in a better, less self-chastising mood, I might even call the ride thrilling.

I inwardly frown, though, when we pass his trailer at the top of the dirt cross and turn right instead of left or just going straight.

I know another dirt road shoots through the trees to the Ruthless Reapers compound on the north side of the woods. A few of my patients have mentioned that. And obviously, I’ve been to the trailer on the southwestish side plenty of times.

But when he heads right, I realize we’re going somewhere I’ve never been or heard about before.

We’re about to find out what’s on the east side of the woods.

🏍️

When we arrive at our destination, my mouth drops open behind the helmet Waylon gave me.

It’s another plus sign. But unlike the one to the south of the woods, this plus sign is fully paved with a wide enough road for cars—not just motorcycles—to drive in and out down each side.

And unlike the trailer community, this paved cross actually has some signage at its front—a standing hand-painted sign declares this town ANGEL POND in the same stenciled font as the one on the back of the Reapers leather vests and jackets. I blink at the sign as we ride past it and turn my head to see if I read it right.

This won't be the first time I blink or feel the urge to rub my eyes to make sure I'm seeing things right, it turns out.