“Silas.”
Silas manages to slide his laptop forward and turns it so the screen faces the room.
A photo. A man.
My stomach drops.
He's older than I remember. Of course he is. Twenty years older. The black hair is gray at the temples now, his jowls are heavier, but the eyes are the same. Pale and watery and steady. A church-bulletin smile. He's standing on a porch with a hand on the shoulder of a Labrador, and behind him is a wreath on a green front door.
My fingertips go to my forearm of their own volition. Through the cotton of my shirt, I can feel the ridges of the scars under my thumb. Long ones. Neat. He liked them neat.
Logan sees me do it. His smirk dies.
“Samuel Harlan,” Silas says. “Sixty-three. Owns a hardware store off the main square. Two streets back is a craftsman house with a wraparound porch and a paid-off mortgage. Widower. His wife died six years ago, ovarian cancer, and from the look of the casseroles still showing up on his front step on Sundays, half the women at the Methodist church would like to fix that for him.”
“Children?” Jules asks.
“Two. Both out of state. The son's an accountant in Hartford and hasn't been home in nine years. The daughter's in Phoenix with three kids and visits at Christmas.”Silas reaches around Nova to tap a key. The photo changes. A storefront,HARLAN HARDWAREacross the awning in faded red. “He opens the shop himself at seven. Closes at six. Lunch at the diner two doors down, same booth, every day except Sunday.”
“Sunday he's at church,” Cole drawls, knife still balanced.
“Sunday he's at church. Front pew. Reads the second lesson on the first Sunday of the month.”
“Of course he does,” Logan mutters.
“He sits on the school board,” Silas continues, and my thumb digs harder into the scar. “Has done so for eleven years. Currently the vice chair. There's a scholarship fund with his name on it for promising boys from disadvantaged backgrounds.”
The trailer goes quiet.
Jonah sets his mug down very carefully on the table.
“Say that again, brother,” he rumbles.
“Scholarship fund,” Silas repeats. His blue eyes are colder than I've seen them in a while. “For promising boys from disadvantaged backgrounds. It's small. Two grants a year. He personally interviews the finalists.”
“I'll set his house on fire,” Logan says flatly. “We don't need the trailer. We don't need a schedule. I'll set his house on fire tonight and we leave.”
“Logan.”
“I will, Elias. I'll fucking?—”
“Logan.” Elias doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. “Sit.”
Logan didn't even stand, but now he leans back into the chair so hard the wood groans.
My thumb keeps moving. Left forearm. Right forearm. Back to the left. The fabric drags. The scars are oldenough that they don't hurt, but the memory of them does.
“Rowe.”
I look up at Elias.
He's watching me. They all are.
“You want to do this?” Elias asks.
The answer is yes. The answer has been yes for twenty years.
“Yes.”
