“She was in her mind,” he answered, stretching his neck from side to side, his black face mask in place. He had vibrant blue eyes and a mess of dark hair. He rivaled me in size and was in and out of the Chapel Crest psych facility in Northern Michigan all the damn time. The guy was a complete headcase, but he knew his shit.
“Please, man. Help me,” I said, pulling off to the side of the street. “I’m worried about her. If something happened?—”
“Shh.” He waved me off and stared out the window.
I frowned and followed his gaze. Quickly, he undid his seatbelt and got out.
“What the fuck,” I muttered, following him.
He strode to Twisty Cone and went inside. Irritated, I followed him to find him at the counter, placing an order.
“Seriously? Fucking ice cream?” I demanded.
He cast me a brief look. “Get him something with chocolate. I think he’s PMS’ing.”
“I don’t fucking want chocolate!” I snapped at him.
He sighed as the girl behind the counter looked a little scared.
“Fine. Cookies and Cream. Put it in a cone. He’s just going to throw it away anyway.”
I ground my teeth in frustration as he paid for the order, took his soft serve mint chocolate chip and cookies and cream cones, and walked out.
I followed him, and he was quick to hand me my cone.
“Sylar. Fucking hell. I need your help.” I took the cone and threw it at a group of pigeons. He stopped and raised his brows at me.
“I knew you were going to do that.”
I tugged at my hair in frustration.
“Easy, big guy. Come. I just needed to refuel. Everett tried to make me eat some guy’s testicles today. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always enjoyed pussy over testicles. I needed something to cleanse my palette.”
“You ate human testicles today?” I frowned as we walked back to my car.
“Active listening, Archangel. I said he tried.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of what were definitely poached fucking testicles. “I put them in my pocket. I used to do that with my Aunt Glenda’s nasty fucking oatmeal raisin cookies. Shit was so hard you could build a house with them.”
I watched as he threw the testicles baseball pitcher style at the group of pigeons, sending the birds squawking and scattering.
“So. Rosalie. Bishop.” He popped the P on her name as he licked his cone, a faraway look in his blue eyes. He’d tugged his mask up enough to reveal his lips briefly.
“She’s missing?—”
“Mm, to some,” he murmured. He cocked his head to the left and smiled. “She’s hiding in plain sight, not far, not wide. With fire-kissed hair, she will not hide. A home he passed, a door untried, Where love and roots have long applied. He searched the world through highs and lows but missed the place where true heart grows. She’s not lost, just softly kissed—By the warmth of a home he has always missed.”
I frowned at his words.
He turned to me. “I get to go with you when you pick her up. I want to meet her.”
I studied him, confused. “I don’t know where she’s at…” I widened my eyes at him. “She’s with my father.”
“Yahtzee, motherfucker. Shotgun.” He strode to my car, but not before taking his cone and smashing it onto someone’s windshield without a second glance.
I got behind the wheel and looked at him, wondering why my father had her and why he hadn’t told me. Anger raced through my veins before something else.
“It’s called hurt, but don’t be so down about it,” Sylar commented as I started the car. “He didn’t kill her. Only tried.”
And with those words, we roared back onto the street, tires screeching.
