“No,” the lawyer said softly.
“He didn’t.”
The heat suddenly felt heavier.
The highway seemed farther away.
“Then why write my name?”
The lawyer exhaled slowly.
“Because the note wasn’t written before he died.”
Nobody spoke.
Not me.
Not Janine.
Not even the man.
“What are you talking about?”
The lawyer’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“The note was written eight years ago.”
I stared at Bo.
Confused.
The dog stared back.
Waiting.
The lawyer continued.
“Walter never knew who would find Bo.”
Another pause.
“But he believed someone eventually would.”
A chill ran through me despite the heat.
“Eight years ago,” the lawyer said, “Walter lost someone on this exact stretch of highway.”
The world seemed to tilt.
The traffic noise disappeared.
Everything disappeared except those words.
This exact stretch of highway.
