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Same make as the truck he drove ten years ago.

Different color.

Doesn’t matter.

I still hate looking at it.

I park my motorcycle and walk up the porch steps.

The boards creak beneath my boots.

I knock once.

No answer.

I knock again.

Harder.

“Tyler!”

Something crashes inside.

Then the door swings open.

Tyler stands there wearing a stained T-shirt and jeans, holding a beer.

He’s gained weight.

Lost hair.

And apparently misplaced whatever dignity he had left.

His eyes widen when he sees me.

“Blackwood?”

“Morning, Tyler.”

He glances toward my motorcycle.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Funny. Was about to ask you the same thing.”

“What?”

“At Autumn Hayes’s bakery.”

His face changes.

Just a flicker.

But I catch it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”