“Ray Dalton.Friend of Helen’s.”He slides a photo across the table.A girl.Sixteen, maybe seventeen.Dark hair.School picture smile.“My granddaughter.She’s been running with a crew out of Bexar County.Older guys.She won’t listen.Her mother can’t reach her.Police say she’s not missing because she comes home every few days.”
“What do you need?”
“I need the older guys to find a new hobby.”
I look at the photo.Look at Ray.Look at the coffee.
“I’ll look into it,” I say.
“Helen said you’d say that.”He slides an envelope across the table.I don’t open it.“She also said you wouldn’t take the money.”
“Helen’s right about a lot of things.”
I finish the coffee.Leave cash on the bar.Kate watches me go.
Her voice stops me.“Luke.”
I turn.
“She’s lucky,” she says.Not bitter.Not sad.Just Kate.
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Probably better if you didn’t.”
I walk out.The parking lot is bright.The truck is warm.I get in and sit for a minute with my hands on the wheel and the radio on static and the sun doing something ordinary through the windshield.
The cemetery is eleven minutes from the Lamplighter.I don’t plan the stop.I just end up there.The way I always end up there—like the truck knows the way and my hands just follow.
Emily’s stone is clean.Someone’s been here.Flowers—fresh, yellow, the kind she would have picked herself.Mrs.Mather, probably.She tends every grave in this cemetery the way she tends everything—without being asked, without expecting thanks, with the absolute certainty that it’s the right thing to do.
I stand there.Hands in my pockets.
“I met someone,” I say.
The wind moves the grass.The flowers shift.
“You’d like her.Or you’d hate her.Probably both.”I almost smile.“She’s stubborn.Bossy.Thinks she can fix things she can’t.Reminds me of you, actually.”
I stand there for a while longer.Not talking.Not needing to.Just letting the quiet be quiet for the first time in two years without it feeling like something’s missing.
I walk back to the truck.Get in.Sit for a minute.
The radio is on.Static.Same station.Same frequency I haven’t changed since the day she died because changing it felt like letting go and letting go felt like forgetting and forgetting felt like the one thing I couldn’t survive.
I look at the dial.Think about changing it.
Maybe tomorrow.
I start the engine and drive.
68
Marin
Luke’s truck is in the driveway.It’s been there three days.Neither of us has mentioned it.
I pour coffee.Two cups.His is black.Mine has enough cream to qualify as dessert.
