Jojo came in so soft I almost didn’t register him at first. He wore a sweater that was more patch than fabric, sleeves chewed to ribbons at the wrists, and his hair was a silvery haystack of static and anxiety.
He walked past the stove, past the fridge, then stopped dead at the counter and placed a folded piece of paper beside the bottle-warmer. He didn’t look at me, just flattened the paper with one hand and then stepped back as if waiting to be dismissed.
I looked at the paper. The edges were crisp, the fold surgical. Whatever was inside, it wasn’t a grocery list.
I finished prepping the bottle, capped it, then picked up the paper and unfolded it in one motion.
It was a printout of a forum post—a screenshot, really, with the browser bar still visible at the top, and a red circle around a specific block of text. I scanned the headline, then the body, and felt the ice hit behind my eyes:
ANYONE SEEN THIS GUY? — USER: PETERSENAQ
We’re looking for a friend, mid-twenties, blond, recently traveling through the area in a blue or gray sedan. Last seen at a gas station near Casper, heading north. Please contact the following number with any info: [number]. Thank you for your help.
Underneath, in smaller print:
Peterson, Forrester & Carrington, Attorneys at Law.
The number was Montana, not Wyoming. The date on the post was four days ago. At the bottom, a note:post deleted by forum moderators.
I read it twice, then looked up at Jojo. He was watching the floor, shoulders hunched like he expected a shoe or a bomb to drop.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked, voice low.
He shrugged, not looking up. “Friend in Sheridan saw it and screen-shotted before it came down. Figured you should know.”
I grunted. “Thanks.”
He lingered, a human question mark, so I held the paper up between two fingers and said, “They’re not even pretending, are they?”
Jojo shook his head, hair scattering across his eyes. “I think they want you to know.”
He was probably right. I looked at the contact number again, the careful wording. It didn’t say what they wanted, but it said who had been paid to want it. The kind of lawyer that didn’t stop at letters.
“Did you tell Rawley?” I asked.
“Yeah. He’s in his office.” Jojo’s gaze flicked to Emilio, then to the window, then back to the floor. “You want me to watch him while you…?”
I shook my head. “He’s coming with me.”
Jojo nodded, still not quite meeting my eye, then slipped back out the door, trailing a scent of flour and soap and worry.
I stood there for a minute, staring at the paper. The text didn’t change on the second read, but the weight of it doubled. These people probably had eyes everywhere, maybe not good ones, but enough to keep Liam from hiding forever. I wondered what he was doing right now, if he’d seen the post, if he was watching the same sunset, if he was cold.
I tucked the printout into my shirt pocket, picked up Emilio, and settled him into the crook of my arm. He blinked up at me, unimpressed, mouth working like he had a complaint to file, but was saving it for management.
The formula bottle was still warm. I tested it on my wrist, then touched it to his lips, and he latched on like a wolf, jaw working, eyes rolling back in bliss. I cradled his head, thumb circling behind his ear, and watched as he drained the whole thing without pausing for air.
“Gonna be a power forward,” I said.
He gave a burp that could have rattled drywall.
When he was done, I wiped his chin with a sleeve and held him upright, palm supporting the full length of his spine. He snuggled in, making those newborn grunts that sound like every emotion compressed to one syllable. I rocked him slow, let my mind tick through what came next.
Once he was asleep, I set him down in the crib we’d jury-rigged out of an old laundry basket. I lined the edges with towels, made a nest of flannel, and watched as he curled into himself, one arm flung over his face like a man too tired for the world.
Then I went looking for Rawley.
He was in his office, same as always, the door open a crack and the light pooling on the hallway rug. I didn’t knock. I just stood in the doorway, hands jammed in my pockets, and waited for him to finish whatever email or war game he was running on the battered laptop.
