The stupid keychain.
Proof that I gave him something small and silly, and he made room for it.
I press one hand to my mouth.
No sound.
No crying.
Not yet.
Lottie waits by the front door in boots, jeans, and a denim jacket over a black T-shirt that says Raise Hell, Eat Cornbread. Her hair is pulled back, showing nothing of the crown tattoo behind her ear, but I know it’s there now.
I can’t stop knowing.
She has my bag in one hand and August’s dinosaur backpack in the other.
Her face ain’t soft.
Good.
Soft would ruin me.
“You ready?” she whispers.
No.
“Yes.”
She looks toward the hallway. “Phone?”
I glance at the kitchen counter.
My phone sits beside Derby’s empty coffee mug, turned off, dead as a confession I can’t make.
“I left it.”
“Good.”
“It feels wrong.”
“It’s wrong.”
My eyes snap to hers.
Lottie shrugs. “Don’t mean it ain’t necessary.”
That is the worst kind of comfort because it doesn’t pretend to be comfort at all.
She pulls a small black burner phone from her pocket and presses it into my hand. “Wildcat set this up.”
I stare at it. “Wildcat knows?”
“Wildcat knows how to make a phone that don’t sing to the wrong people. He doesn’t know the whole opera.”
“Does Legend know?”
“No. But remember, he said you being here was up to you.”