The Summer Deal (Wildstone #5)(93)

For ten years now, since she’d been fifteen, she’d made this annual pilgrimage, but her legs refused to go another step. As far as her eyes could see, green grass spread out in front of her like a blanket over gently rolling hills, dotted with aged sweeping oaks.

And a myriad of gravestones.

Above her, the sky above churned moodily. Thunder crackled, and a part of her heart smiled because Michael had always loved a good storm.

Buoyed by the idea of her onetime foster sibling sitting on a cloud creating weather to amuse her, she managed to coax herself closer and let the strap of her beach chair slip off her shoulder. She tried to open it, but it was more stubborn than . . . well, her. “Not today, Satan,” she muttered. She’d paid too much for this damn chair at the touristy general store in Wildstone for it not to work, and finally, after a two-minute battle of wills, swearing the air blue the whole time, she got the thing open. Feeling righteous, she plopped down—only to have the chair jerk beneath her weight, making her gasp dramatically and throw her hands out, braced to fall to her ass.

She didn’t.

Letting out a long breath, she pulled a can of soda from her purse, cracked it open, and toasted to the grave. “Happy birthday. Hope that was entertaining.”

“Oh, hugely,” said an amused female voice behind her. “And you beat us here.”

“Of course she did,” a second female voice said. “Maze’s far too perfect to be late. There’s a reason I always wanted to be her when I grew up.”

Maze snorted. Perfect. Right. Just one of many roles she’d played. She looked up as Caitlin and Heather moved into her view, two of the only people on earth who could both make her laugh and drive her insane—almost as if they were a real family.

Which they weren’t. Caitlin and Michael had been the only actual blood siblings. Maze and Heather, and a whole bunch of others, had been just the foster kids.

Caitlin and Heather began taking things from a big bag: HAPPY BIRTHDAY streamer, balloons, and a small cake—all superhero themed, of course.

Tradition for Michael’s birthday.

Maze stood, pulled a Deadpool action figure from her pocket, and set it on Michael’s headstone.

Heather smiled at her and produced a Thor.

Cat had—no big surprise—Catwoman. She and Heather got their beach chairs open without incident, setting them up in an informal semicircle facing Michael’s grave. Maze noted Caitlin had left space between them for a fourth chair.

The last member of their ragtag group hadn’t yet arrived. Hell, maybe he’d be a no-show this year. The thought made her chest go tight. She’d thought about not showing up either, but guilt was a huge burden, and no one felt the weight of it more than she—seeing as she was the one responsible for Michael’s death.

“Stop,” Caitlin said, cutting the cake in her lap into three pieces. “I can hear your self-destructive thoughts from here.”

A lot Caitlin knew about self-destructive thoughts; she’d never had a moment of doubt in her life. Caitlin was the perfect one, the real deal perfect. Two years older than Maze, Cat had her shit together. She’d been born with her shit together. Her hair was a long, shiny, blond silk that never frizzed, her smile could draw in even the most hardened soul, and she had the sort of willowy body that looked good in every damn thing—even though her idea of exercise was lifting her Starbucks coffee cup to her lips. Maze could hate her for that alone, except . . . Cat was one of the most intensely loyal and fiercely protective, caring people that had ever come into her life.

“You can’t just tell someone to stop angsting,” Heather said, taking a piece of cake. Heather was petite, barely coming up to Maze’s chin. But what she lacked in height, she made up for in grit. Today her black hair had bright magenta highlights that gave her an implied attitude to mask the fact that she was the sweetheart kitten of the group, one who never used her claws.

She didn’t have to. Maze used hers enough for everyone. People said it was her red hair. It wasn’t red, it was auburn, thank you very much, but still, there was no getting around the fact that her hair—a bunch of uncontrollable waves and the bane of her existence—did tend to match her bad ’tude. She hadn’t needed the shrinks that CPS had sent her to to tell her that because she’d never really had a sense of belonging. That’s what happened when you were raised to be a wild tumbleweed in the wind, tossed in directions against your will. Whatever. She was long over it, and took another long pull of her soda to hide all the feels annoyingly bombarding her.

Caitlin handed her a piece of cake. She’d just taken her first bite when she felt it, awareness tingling at the back of her neck. Her body knew what that meant even if her brain pretended not to, and the frosting went down the wrong pipe. While she went about choking up a lung, Heather pounded her on the back until she could suck in air again.

Walker Scott hadn’t made a sound in his approach. No footsteps, no rustling, nothing. The man was silent as the night.

Walker the boy hadn’t been silent. He’d been feral, and there’d been nothing calm or quiet about him.

But things changed, and so had he. She watched as he set out his chair. It didn’t dare misbehave, opening for him with a flick of a forearm. He then set a Batman action figure next to the others on the gravestone, and with a hand braced on the stone, stood still for a moment, staring down at Michael’s name.