I lean back against the headrest. “Like what?”
“There was talk of money,” Dad says. “Nothing proven. Just whispers.”
“Bonnie’s family had land,” Mom adds. “And bees. And that old reputation of keeping things close. People assumed there was more there than met the eye.”
“And another family?” I prompt.
“Yes,” Dad says. “Not the big ranches. Smaller. Local. Old grievances, maybe. Or imagined ones.”
“Names?” I ask.
Dad pauses. “That part’s fuzzy.”
Mom sighs softly. “We didn’t know what to believe. And then time did what time always does… it moved on.”
I stare out at the trees, the way the light fractures through the branches. “Did you ever think it wasn’t an accident?”
Mom doesn’t answer right away.
“When something’s ruled an accident very quickly,” she says carefully, “people tend to accept it. Especially when asking questions would make things harder for everyone involved.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say gently.
She exhales. “No. I didn’t think it was that simple.”
Dad clears his throat again. “Wyatt… why are you asking now?”
I consider lying, but I don’t.
“There’s someone in town who deserves clarity,” I say. “Even if it’s uncomfortable.
Mom softens. “Oh.”
That single syllable carries understanding. Concern. Approval. All at once.
“Be careful,” she says. “Digging up old stories doesn’t always give you what you want.”
“I know.”
“And,” Dad adds, “if you need help… you call.”
“I will,” I promise.
We hang up a few minutes later, my mother reminding me, again, that they’ve sent a care package and yes, it does include soup, and no, I shouldn’t pretend I don’t need it.
I sit there for a long moment after the call ends, phone resting warm in my hand.
This town didn’t forget. It just decided not to remember too loudly.
And Abilene, quiet, observant Abilene, has been living in the echo of that choice her whole life.
I start the engine.
Whatever this is, I’m not done looking.
Not now. Not when the pieces are finally starting to line up.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
