Page 17 of The Wright Man

Even the couch—sunken in the middle, still wearing the shape of her favorite throw blanket—looked like it was holding its breath, waiting on her to come curl up and fall asleep with the TV watching her.

She was everywhere. In the air. In the floorboards. In the silence.

It felt like the house was saying her name.

Every damn corner whispered it. And I let it. Just for a minute.

Then I turned to look out the window—and saw him.

Mr. Reed. Cap.

He was older now. Gray touched his beard, and his walk was slower, but the presence was still there. That Captain energy. Like even time knew better than to come at him sideways.

He was in the garage across the street, in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, trying to maneuver a heavy-ass box down his driveway like he didn't have three grown daughters and no damn business lifting anything heavier than a screwdriver.

And just like that, the ache left my chest. Like somebody turned a knob and let some of the pressure out.

I headed out the door before I realized I was moving. Jogged across the street like a man with somewhere to be.

"Yo!" I called, picking up speed. "You sure you got that, old man?"

Cap straightened up, eyes squinting against the sun.

"Who you calling old, boy?" he shot back. "Don't act like you too grown to get popped in the mouth."

I grinned. "Boy? That's Staff Sergeant to you, Gunny."

Gunny—short for Gunnery Sergeant. That was Mr. Reed's rank before he left the Marines to become a cop. I used to hear the other vets call him that when I was a kid, always with a little extra respect in their voices. He never bragged about it, but you could tell he wore that title like a second spine.

He huffed a laugh, already walking toward me with that proud, no-nonsense strut. "Marine for eight years and still talking slick. Clearly the Corps failed you."

"Don't blame the Corps. Blame your influence."

"Mmhm. Come here, boy."

We dapped up with one of those long, heavy slaps that ended in a pull-in hug—the kind you only give to the ones who helped raise you right.

He clapped me on the back hard. "Good to see you, son. Been too long."

"Yeah," I said, low. "It has. Good to see you too, Cap."

He looked me over once, like he was checking inventory. "You look solid. You holding up?"

"I'm here," I said. "Trying to stay that way."

He nodded like he understood the parts I didn't say.

"Come on," he said, jerking his head toward the house. "You look thirsty. I got cold beer and too much time. Let's catch up."

"Yes, Sir."

I followed him inside, already feeling the edges of something start to settle. I wasn't sure what—peace, maybe.

Maybe it was the reminder that no matter how far I ran, someone was always waiting on the porch.

The second I stepped inside the Reed house, it hit different.

Not like mine did. Mine was loud with memory—hers, Mama's, Kareem's. This one was quieter. Still full of memories, but the kind that had been dusted off and placed neatly on shelves.