"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Again."
He wiped the dirt from his face. He checked the door to make sure Cole hadn't seen.
The secret life had begun.
II. The Trojan Horse
By Thursday, Ryder had a routine.
Daytime: The Model Patient. He did his leg lifts. He iced. He smiled at Elena during PT and pretended his pain scale was a manageable four.
Nighttime: The Maniac. He waited until the house was asleep, then he did pushups until his arms shook. He planked until his core burned. He visualized the ride until he could smell the rosin.
But he needed more than visualization. He needed mobility. And to get mobility, he needed to move.
"Elena called," Cole said at breakfast, pouring coffee.
Ryder froze, his fork hovering over his eggs. "She knows?"
"Knows what?" Cole asked, frowning.
"Nothing. Why did she call?"
"Her kitchen sink is leaking. The trap under the drain is rusted out. She asked if I could recommend a plumber."
Ryder set his fork down.
This was it. The entry point.
"I can fix it," Ryder said.
Cole laughed. "You? You're on crutches. And you're not exactly a handyman. You're a demolition expert."
"I can fix a sink, Cole. It's just PVC and a wrench. I'm going stir-crazy. Let me do something useful."
Cole studied him. He looked at Ryder’s face—the dark circles, the jittery energy. He probably assumed it was cabin fever. He didn't know it was reconnaissance.
Ryder needed to see her. Not as a patient, but as a man. And more importantly, he needed to see the boy. The suspicion from the porch had been festering in his gut like an ulcer. He needed to know.
"She's at the clinic all day," Cole said. "Her mom picks up the kid."
"Perfect," Ryder said. "I'll go over, fix the leak, and be gone before she gets home. A ghost plumber."
Cole hesitated. "You sure you can drive? The truck is an automatic, but..."
"I can drive," Ryder lied. He couldn't drive. He would have to use his left foot for the brake, which was impossible. He would use his hand. He would figure it out.
"Fine," Cole sighed. "Keys are on the hook. Tools are in the bed. Don't flood her house, Ryder. She's got enough stress."
"I'm a professional," Ryder grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Ryder was pulling Cole’s truck into the driveway of a small, white bungalow on the edge of town.
It was a modest house. A porch with a swing. A tricycle in the yard.
Ryder killed the engine. He sat there for a moment, his heart thumping.
He wasn't here for the sink. He was here for the answers.
