I came here hoping for clarity.
Instead, I leave with more questions than I started with, and the growing certainty that whatever my aunt knows, she’s making cautious choices about what not to tell me.
And that scares me more than any anonymous letter ever could.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jesse
Saturday
I know something’s off the second I see Wyatt’s notebook.
Not the vet one, the clean one with dosage charts and emergency numbers, but the other one. The thick, soft cover kind he only pulls out when his brain is chewing on thoughts it won’t let go of.
He’s hunched over the kitchen table, glasses sliding down his nose, pen moving like he’s afraid to stop.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Either you’re inventing a new form of math, or something’s wrong.”
He doesn’t look up. “Both could be true.”
That’s confirmation enough.
I pour coffee, slide into the chair across from him, and wait. Wyatt’s not the kind of man you rush. You give him space, let him line the pieces up in his own head.
Finally, he exhales and pushes the notebook toward me.
“I didn’t want to loop anyone in until I was sure I wasn’t chasing ghosts,” he says. “But I don’t think I am.”
I glance down.
Notes. Dates. Names. Arrows connecting things that don’t want to be connected.
Bonnie Kentwood.
Fire… logging road.
No inquest.
Land parcels.
Old debts?
My jaw tightens.
“Wyatt,” I say carefully, “why do I feel like I just walked into a true crime podcast?”
He huffs. “Because I’m very bad at dramatic presentation.”
“What is this?” I ask.
He finally meets my eyes. “Abilene’s family.”
Wyatt taps the edge of the notebook with his pen, not looking at me. “Okay. So. This started as curiosity. That was the lie I told myself.”
I lift my mug. “Naturally.”
He exhales. “Bonnie Kentwood’s death was ruled an accident. Everyone knows that part. No foul play. Clean ending.”
