He was standing on the sidewalk with his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. He looked so young. Just a kid.
“Every year,” he said. “On October fourteenth. My uncle sent them.” He nodded at David Reyes. “They kept coming back. Refused. I thought… I thought maybe you hated me.”
I couldn’t answer.
“It’s okay if you do,” Danny said. His voice cracked. “I would. If I were you. I’d hate me too.”
David Reyes cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Whitfield,” he said gently. “There’s more in the envelope. If you’re ready.”
I looked down at it. I’d forgotten I was still holding it.
I took out the next page.
It was a photograph. A color snapshot, printed on regular paper.
A highway shoulder at night. Emergency lights. Fire trucks. A blue Honda Civic parked on the shoulder with its hazard lights on.
