I frowned.
Andrew swallowed.
“My friend Callum was.”
I had heard that name before. Callum had worked with Andrew years earlier. I had met him twice.
Andrew continued.
“We were together that night. I had been drinking. Callum offered to drive.”
My stomach twisted.
“The car went off the road.”
He nodded.
“I got out.”
“And Callum?”
Andrew looked away.
“He didn’t.”
I felt cold again.
“The car burned badly. My wallet was inside. My watch was inside. My phone was inside.”
He paused.
“And Callum had borrowed my jacket.”
I stared at him.
“The police thought he was you?”
“At first.”
“Yes. At first?”
Andrew said nothing.
The word barely came out.
He stopped in the doorway.
Everything inside me went silent.
Three months of grief disappeared for one horrible second.
Then it came rushing back so violently that my knees weakened.
Andrew was alive.
The man I had buried was standing six feet away from me.
