“No.”
She frowns.
I look at her. “I want it honest.”
She absorbs that in silence.
Then she says, “People will say it was The Widow.”
I go still.
The road ahead cuts through dark fields, headlights eating up the yellow lines. Behind us, Widowmaker rides tied down and silent, like even she is listening.
“People say lots of stupid shit around Hell,” I say.
“Do you think it’s stupid?”
I think about brake failure. Hot Mama’s smile. Lottie asking for pie. The crown behind Amelia’s ear. The pale shape in my mirror the night I found her on Hell Road with a blown tire and fear packed in every box she owned.
“No,” I say. “I think sometimes stories are how folks tell the truth when nobody can prove it.”
Amelia’s fingers tighten on the wheel.
“The Widow warns women,” she whispers.
“Some say.”
“And wrecks bad men.”
“Some say.”
“Maybe she did both.”
“Maybe.”
She is quiet for a long stretch.
Then she says, “Or maybe women did what ghosts get blamed for.”
That line sits between us.
Sharp.
True enough to draw blood.
I look at her profile, at the little crown, at the woman who left Kentucky running and is driving back marked.
“Both can be true,” I say.
This time, she doesn’t argue.
Another mile passes.
Then another.
“You think they killed him,” she says.
“I think Jeremy Vale had working brakes until women or ghosts got tired of him breathing.”