Maybe none of them.
Maybe all.
“Brake failure,” I say.
“Roads are hard on men who don’t maintain things.”
“Don’t talk in riddles.”
“Fine. I don’t know who did it. I know Vale was alive yesterday making moves on Amelia and the kid in Official. Now he’s not. I know you are in Oregon. Amelia is in Oregon. Lottie is back in Kentucky raising hell and acting shocked people expect her to explain things.”
“She know?”
“She heard.”
“And?”
“And she said, ‘Bad brakes kill more men than common sense ever did.’ Then she asked if there was pie.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
“Legend?”
“Quiet.”
That is worse.
“Sophie?”
“Still at Paradise Falls. Don’t know if she knows yet.”
“And Amelia?”
“I’m calling you first.”
Why?
Because somebody thinks I should decide whether to tell her. Or because somebody knows I will reach her soon.
My throat tightens.
Jeremy is dead.
Amelia is free.
No.
Not free.
Not cleanly.
There is a difference between a lock opening and someone cutting it off with bolt cutters while smiling at you from the shadows.
“She owes someone now,” I say.
Oaks exhales. “Maybe.”