He grabbed his crutches and the tool bag. He hobbled to the door.
He knocked. No answer.
He tried the key Cole had given him. It turned.
Ryder Stone stepped into the house of the woman he loved.
It smelled like her. That same vanilla and rain scent, mixed with the smell of toast and laundry detergent. It was warm. Lived-in.
He walked through the living room. It was tidy, but cluttered with the debris of a child’s life. A pile of Lego bricks on the rug. A backpack hanging on a chair. Drawings taped to the wall.
Ryder stopped at the wall of drawings.
They were crayon masterpieces.A red house. A green dinosaur. A black bull.
He touched the drawing of the bull. It had a rider. A stick figure with a hat.
"Leo," Ryder whispered.
He moved to the kitchen.
The sink was indeed leaking. A bucket under the cabinet was half-full of gray water.
Ryder set the tool bag down. He should fix it. He should do the job.
But the silence of the house was pulling at him.
He turned. He walked down the hallway.
There were two doors. One was open—a bedroom with a quilt on the bed and a book on the nightstand. Elena’s room.
Ryder stood in the doorway. He felt like a trespasser. A violator.
He looked at the bed. He imagined her sleeping there. Alone.
He turned to the second door.
It was closed. A sign on the door, written in wobbly marker, read:LEO’S ROOM. KEEP OUT.
Ryder pushed the door open.
It was an explosion of cowboys.
The wallpaper was rodeo-themed. The bedspread had horses on it. The shelves were lined with plastic bulls, horses, and riders.
Ryder walked in. He felt giant and clumsy in the small space.
He looked at the dresser.
There were photos. Leo at the park. Leo on a pony. Leo with Elena.
And then, tucked in the corner, a framed photo of a baby.
A newborn. Wrapped in a hospital blanket. Red, wrinkled, screaming.
Ryder picked it up.
His hands were shaking.
