“Last I checked.”
“And Mike?”
The question comes soft.
Too soft.
Damn it.
I should let Legend tell her. Shouldn’t be my mouth that drops the dead man in the dirt. But we’re standing on Hell Road with her life spilling out of cardboard boxes, and she asked.
“Mike’s dead,” I say.
The words hit her like a slap.
She doesn’t fall.
Doesn’t cry.
Just goes still.
So still that even August senses it.
“Mama?”
She turns away from me fast and leans into the truck, hand reaching for the kid. “It’s okay.”
It ain’t.
Nothing about her voice says okay.
August touches her face. “You crying again?”
“No, baby.”
Lie. Little one. Necessary maybe. I give her a second because I’m an asshole, not a monster.
The wind moves again. Far down the road, something creaks in the trees. I glance toward Dead Man’s Curve without meaning to. Fog pulls itself along the ditch, pale and low. For half a second, it looks like fabric.
White fabric.
A dress, maybe.
Then it breaks apart.
Just fog.
I look back at Amelia.
“You still want to find his family?” I ask.
She straightens slowly. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Everybody’s got choices.”
“That’s something men say when they have money, weapons, and somewhere to sleep.”
The answer is sharp enough to cut.