We followed him outside.
The parking lot shimmered. Wade’s truck sat three spaces down, an old dark pickup dusted pale along the wheel wells. He walked toward it slowly, not looking back to see whether we came.
Of course we came.
At the tailgate, Wade stopped.
His hand rested on the latch.
“Elise,” he said without turning, “your father asked me to tell you he knew you took the wristband.”
She froze.
Wade glanced over his shoulder. “He said he saw your face when you found it. That was why he moved the first time.”
Elise’s hand went instinctively to her pocket, though the wristband was still inside the storage unit.
“Jonah,” Wade continued, “he asked me to tell you he never blamed you for not listening.”
Jonah looked away toward the road.
Then Wade faced me.
The late sun struck the lines around his eyes. I could see how tired he was, how many months he had spent carrying another man’s decisions as though loyalty meant becoming a locked room.
