Nightmare sometimes. She doesn't talk about them, but I hear her wake up. I go and sit on the edge of her bed until she falls back asleep. She remember much about Lisa. Some bits and pieces.
She remembers the sound of her voice, the way she smelled lavender. You know, Lisa always smelled like lavender. Wyatt's throat tightened. I bought the same soap. Keep it in the bathroom.
Sometimes Ruby goes in there and just sits holding the bar of soap. I don't stop her. Hank nodded slowly. You're a good father steal. I'm trying.
I need Wyatt said. That's all I can do. After Hank left, Wyatt finished the carburetor work and locked up the garage. Ruby fell asleep in the truck on the drive home, her head pressed against the window, her math worksheet crumpled in her lap. Wyatt carried her upstairs to their apartment, her small body warm and trusting in his arms, and laid her gently in her bed.
He didn't bother changing her clothes, just pulled the blanket up to her her chin and stood there in the doorway for a long moment, watching her breathe. This was his world now. This small sleeping girl in a small bedroom in a small apartment on the east side of Portland. It wasn't the life he'd imagined when he was 20 and fearless and convinced the road would never end, but it was the life he had and it was enough. It had to be.
The call came 2 days later on a gray Wednesday morning while Wyatt was replacing a brake line on a Ford pickup that had seen better decades. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he almost didn't answer, but the number was local and work was work. So he wiped his hands and picked up this Wyatt Brennan. The voice was female professional clipped speaking. My name is Victoria Ashford.
I got your number from a client you did work for last month. Gerald Hammond. Wyatt remembered. Gerald had needed his deck rebuilt and Wyatt had done it in 3 days for $800. Good work.
Honest work. The kind of work that let him sleep at night. I remember Gerald. Wyatt said. I'm calling because I need some restoration work done on an antique cabinet.
It's a family piece. Very valuable. Gerald said you were meticulous and reasonably priced. Would you be available to take a look? Wyatt hesitated.
Something in her voice put him on edge. Too smooth. Too controlled. Like she was reading from a script she'd memorized. But work was work and Ruby needed new shoes and the rent was due in 10 days.
Sure, he said. When works for you. This afternoon, say 2:00, I'm in West Hills. West Hills, the wealthy part of Portland, where houses had gates and views of the Cascade Range and property taxes that cost more than Wyatt's annual income. He'd worked in neighborhoods like that before.
The people were always the same, polite to your face, quick to call the cops if you parked in the wrong spot. I can do that, Wyatt said. Text me the address. She did. And at 1:30, Wyatt stood in front of his closet, staring at the leather cut that hung in the back like a ghost from another life.
The patches were faded, but still visible. The winged skull, the words Hell's Angels across the top rocker, Oregon across the bottom. The small patch that read loyalty above all. He hadn't worn it in 6 years. Not since the day he walked into the hospital room and saw Lisa hooked up to machines that beeped and hissed and couldn't save her.
Not since the day he held Ruby in one arm and signed the DNR papers with the other. Not since the day he realized that the road was a jealous lover and if he didn't step away it would take his daughter the same way it had taken his wife. But today, for reasons he couldn't quite name, Wyatt reached into the closet and pulled the cut down. He ran his fingers over the worn leather, feeling the texture of 15 years of wind and rain and miles. Then he put it back, closed the closet door, put on a plain black jacket instead.
He picked Ruby up from school at 1:45. She came running across the playground in her purple backpack, her face flushed from recess, her ponytail bouncing. When she reached him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his stomach. "You okay, baby?" Wyatt asked.
My throat hurts a little, Ruby said her voice slightly. Wyatt crouched down and pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. Warm? Not hot, but warm? He swore quietly under his breath.
"You feel up to coming with me to a job? I'll make it quick. Then we'll grab some medicine on the way home." Ruby nodded. She never complained.
Even when she felt bad, she just tucked it away somewhere inside and kept going. Wyatt didn't know if that was strength or something she'd learned from watching him, and he wasn't sure which answer scared him more. The house in West Hills was exactly what Wyatt expected. Three stories, modern architecture, floor to ceiling windows, and a driveway made of stone pavers that probably cost more per square foot than Wyatt's entire garage. He parked his battered pickup truck near the garage and felt the familiar discomfort of being somewhere he didn't belong.
Ruby climbed out of the truck slowly. Her backpack slung over one shoulder. Wyatt took her hand and together they walked to the front door. He rang the bell. Somewhere inside, chimes echoed like church bells.
The woman who answered was exactly what Wyatt expected, too. Mid-40s blonde hair styled with the kind of precision that required appointments and products Wyatt couldn't pronounce. She wore black slacks and a cream colored blouse that probably cost more than Wyatt's truck payment. Her eyes moved over him quickly, taking in the tattoos on his wrists, the scar above his left eyebrow, the work boots that had seen a thousand job sites. "Mr. Brennan," she said, and her smile was polite, but didn't reach her eyes.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice." "No problem," Wyatt said. "This is my daughter, Ruby. She wasn't feeling well, so I had to bring her along. I hope that's all right."
Victoria's gaze shifted to Ruby, and something flickered across her face. Annoyance maybe or calculation. It was gone too quickly for Wyatt to be sure. Of course, Victoria said, though her tone suggested it was anything but. She can wait in the living room.
Just please make sure she doesn't touch anything. The house was immaculate. White walls, marble floors, furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. Wyatt followed Victoria through a foyer that echoed with their footsteps past a kitchen with appliances that gleamed like surgical instruments into a living room where a wall of windows overlooked a garden so perfect it seemed artificial. "The cabinet is here," Victoria said, gesturing to a large wooden piece against the far wall.