“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Promise.”
He hung up and pocketed the phone.
Dawson inched closer to the board. “We’ve still got nothing on the girl in the hospital. You think she’s connected to all this?”
Buddy looked at the board, at the two faces he hadn’t saved, at the words that wouldn’t leave him alone. “She has to be,” he said. “We just haven’t seen the pattern yet and whether it leads to Simon or some other asshole that I crushed during my career.”
“Blue 42,” Keaton said softly. “That’s a quarterback call at the line of scrimmage.”
“I know what it means. I played football in high school. But this isn’t a football game. And Blue means something else in this situation.” Buddy ran a hand over the top of his head and stared at the board.
“I don’t know.” Keaton moved closer. “When the quarterback uses Blue, it could be simply to change the play, and then the number corresponds to the play, whether it be a run or a pass. But Blue 42 could also be a dummy play, depending on the team.” Keaton waved a finger at the words on the board and glanced over his shoulder. “Whoever is doing this is signaling to you that he’s changed the game, or he’s changed the something specific in the game, or this is just to get you to focus on something that doesn’t matter. It’s a distraction so they can do whatever’s next without you seeing it coming.”
Sterling took a step back and folded his arms. “I hate to admit it, but that makes sense.”
Buddy leaned back on his desk and continued to muddle through it all. He couldn’t argue that it didn’t fit. But he couldn’t argue that they should toss it out, either. “Even if it references football, it’s got a deeper meaning.”
“If you figure that out, let us know,” Dawson said. “We have to get going. Call if you need anything.”
Buddy waved his hand aimlessly. He glanced from the whiteboard to the corkboard, and back again.
The fan ticked overhead. A fly circled near the window. Outside, the light shifted—Florida morning bled into noon, the world carrying on like it didn’t care who’d been left behind.
Buddy stared at the photos until his eyes blurred. He could feel the humidity sinking into his skin, the ache behind his ribs that started when he thought too long about what might come next.
He stepped up to the board and uncapped the marker Dove had used. Beneath all the notes, he wrote in block letters:
THE PAST DOESN’T DIE. IT WAITS.
The marker squeaked against the surface, the smell of ink filling the air.
He stood there a long moment, staring at the words until they looked like they might burn through the whiteboard.
Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Not this time.”
Chapter Ten
Fallon hated hospitals. Not only did they remind her of death. They smelled like dirty feet and rotten eggs. Not even the Florida humidity mixed with antiseptic could mask that stench.
It also reminded her of the day her parents died.
Buddy’s hand was warm against hers as they walked the long corridor, past muted voices and the soft ping of heart monitors echoing behind closed doors.
She didn’t pull away.
Maybe she should’ve, but the truth was, she didn’t want to. She needed his strength.
He stopped just outside Trent’s room. “You’ve been quiet since I picked you up.”
“We didn’t get much sleep, and it’s been a long day.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She glanced at him, and he caught her with that look—the one that saw through every layer she tried to hide behind. His eyes were softer than usual, less shadowed, and maybe more caring.
“You’ve been distant since last night,” he added.
“I’m processing.”
