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“She runs sometimes!”

The shout cracks through the kitchen so loudly I actually flinch.

Tom notices.

Several catastrophic realizations rearrange themselves in rapid succession across his face.

He drags both hands through his hair. “Jeez. Sorry.”

I stare at him. Maggie never mentioned him yelling. But he’s under strain, isn’t he? People yell when they’re under strain.

Nevertheless, the note suddenly feels different in my pocket.

When I left Redwood Run this morning, I imagined watching Tom's face when he read it, looking for surprise, relief, recognition.

Now all I can think about is losing control of the only concrete thing Maggie appears to have left behind to be found.

If he already knows what the note means, then showing him helps nobody. And if he doesn't, I can't shake the feeling that handing it over would be a mistake I can't undo.

For the first time since finding it, the note feels less like a clue and more like evidence.

Evidence of what, I don't know yet.

“I’m trying,” he mutters. “You think this is easy for me?”

A strange chill crawls over my arms, raising goosebumps.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think this is easy.”

I leave before my reason and instinct can argue with each other any longer.

The rain has picked up by the time I hit Redwood Run again.

Cold drops slide down the back of my collar while I cross Main Street, carrying entirely too many disregulated thoughts.

I’m so distracted replaying the conversation with Tom, I walk directly into a very large human being outside the hardware store.

Or more accurately, directly into his chest.

My forehead hits solid muscle.

A coffee cup tilts sideways.

Someone swears.

I stumble backward, horrified, while coffee splashes across the sidewalk and onto an enormous black biker boot.

“Oh no! I’m sorry,” I blurt out, looking up.

Deep brown eyes blink down at me.

Briggs Purnell stands there holding what remains of an iced coffee and looking mildly startled, which on him still reads vaguely dangerous.

The lid slides off the cup and plops onto the pavement.

We both stare at it.

“Well,” I say finally. “That feels symbolic.”