Page 80 of A Million To Fall

Boston doesn’t answer, silence stretching thick and uncomfortable.

My pulse starts to climb.

“Boss?”

His jaw tightens. “Not really,” he says so quietly, I almost miss it.

“But… you need to change,” I say, matching his volume.

“Yeah,” he breathes, then swallows hard.

I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“Boss?” I whisper and reach out to him, resting a hand on his forearm. It feels cool despite the warm summer breeze.

His eyes close, a heavy, resigned sigh escaping his chest.

And that’s when everything clicks into place.

His disappearance.

Three jobs.

His things. Things that hint at wilderness. At camping. At… survival.

“Boss?” I try to swallow the jagged lump in my throat. “Where do you keep your clothes?”

For a long moment, he just stares at the pavement between us. Then, “Usually in my trunk.”

I inhale a shaky breath, looking between him and his car, then back again.

“Usually?” I repeat weakly.

His throat bobs. “Yeah.”

“And right now?”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

A car pulls out of the parking lot. Voices float over from the restaurant, and somewhere in the far-off distance, sirens wail.

Boston drags a hand over the back of his neck. “At Jake’s.”

The knot in my throat grows. “Why?”

His eyes meet mine—gray and exhausted—looking like someone who’s spent a very long time carrying something alone.

“It’s where I’m staying.”

My chest tightens, but I nod. I already knew. I think I’ve known for the last minute and just haven’t wanted to admit it.

His gaze drops to the asphalt. “I don’t have a home, Skye.”

“What do you mean you don’t have a home?”

“I don’t have a home,” he repeats. “I just have—” He gestures at the car.

“You live in your car?” My voice comes out small. Cracked.