Ruby nodded, but her eyes had that distant look. The one that meant she was thinking about something she didn't have words for yet. "Let's get you some medicine," Wyatt said. They drove to Riverside Pharmacy, a small place on the east side that Wyatt had been going to for years. The pharmacist knew him by name.
Knew Ruby, too. Made small talk while ringing up the children's Tylenol and the throat lozenes and the bottle of orange juice that Ruby liked. Wyatt paid cash $32 and didn't ask for a receipt. He never did. Just folded the bills, took the bag, and guided Ruby back to the truck.
She was quiet on the drive home. Too quiet. But Wyatt didn't push. Sometimes quiet was what you needed. Sometimes quiet was the only language that made sense.
At home, he made her soup from a can and sat with her while she ate three spoonfuls and then pushed the bowl away. He gave her the medicine, watched her swallow it with orange juice, and carried her to bed, even though she was old enough to walk. She was already half asleep by the time he pulled the blanket up to her chin. "Daddy," she murmured, her eyes closed. "Yeah, baby, that lady, is she nice?"
Wyatt thought about Victoria Ashford, about the cold precision of her home, about the way she'd looked at him like he was a problem to be managed rather than a person to be met. I don't know, he said honestly. Why? But Ruby was already asleep, her breathing soft, and even her small hand curled against her cheek. Wyatt stood there in the doorway for a long moment, watching her the way he always did, making sure, confirming, holding on to the only thing that mattered.
Then he went to the kitchen, poured himself a whiskey he didn't really want, and sat at the small table in the dark. The check from Victoria sat on the counter. $100. It felt like more than payment. It felt like a down payment on something he hadn't agreed to. He thought about calling her tomorrow and cancelling.
Thought about returning the check and walking away. But rent was due in 88 days and Ruby needed new shoes. And the truck was making a noise that meant something expensive was about to break. So he finished the whiskey and went to bed and told himself it was just a job. Just another day's work in a life full of work.
Nothing more. He was wrong. The call came at 9:45 that night, ripping Wyatt out of a shallow sleep. He grabbed his phone, his heart already pounding because calls at this hour were never good news. Ruby's school, the hospital.
Hank calling to tell him one of the brothers had gone down on the highway, but the number was unfamiliar. Local area code. Hello. Wyatt's voice was rough with sleep. Mr. Brennan, this is Officer Patterson with Portland PD.
We need you to come down to the station. We have some questions. Wyatt set up his mind racing. Questions about what? There's been a theft reported.
Your name came up. We'd like to speak with you. A theft? What are you talking about? We'll explain when you get here.
Can you come down tonight? I have a daughter. She's sick. She's asleep. I can't just leave her.
A pause on the other end. Then is there someone who can watch her? Wyatt thought of Hank. Thought of calling at this hour and asking for help and admitting that whatever careful balance he'd maintained for six years was about to tip. But what choice did he have?
Give me an hour, Wyatt said. He called Hank, woke him up, explained in clip sentences what he knew, which was almost nothing. Hank didn't ask questions, just said he'd be there in 20 minutes. That was brotherhood. That was what the patches meant.
You didn't ask why. You just showed up. When Hank arrived, Water was already dressed, his hands shaking slightly as he laced his boots. Ruby was still asleep. Hank stood in the doorway of her room, his massive frame outlined by the hallway light, and looked at Wyatt with the kind of concern that made Wyatt's stomach turn.
You know what this is about? Hank asked. No idea, Wyatt said. But I got a bad feeling. You want me to come with you?
No, stay with Ruby. If I'm not back by morning, I don't know. Figure it out. Hank gripped Wyatt's shoulder. You didn't do anything.
Steel. Whatever this is, you didn't do it. I know, Wyatt said. But his voice lacked conviction, and they both heard it. The drive to the station took 15 minutes through empty streets.
Wyatt's mind raced through possibilities, trying to find the thread that connected him to a theft. But nothing made sense. He'd done a dozen jobs in the past month. All clean, all paid, all finished without incident. The station was fluorescent bright and smelled like burnt coffee in bureaucracy.
Officer Patterson was mid-40s, tired eyes, the look of a man who'd seen too much and believed too little. He led Wyatt to an interview room small and windowless, and gestured to a metal chair. Have a seat, Mr. Brennan. Wyatt sat. His palms were sweating.
He wiped them on his jeans. Can you tell me where you were today? Between 2 and 6 p.m. I was working a job in West Hills, Victoria Ashford's place. Patterson nodded like this was the answer he expected. And what kind of work were you doing?
Restoring a cabinet. Why? What's this about? Mrs. Ashford reported that a diamond necklace was stolen from her home today. It's valued at $52,000.
She says you were the only person in the house besides her. And when she checked her jewelry box tonight, the necklace was gone. The words hit Wyatt like a punch to the gut. His vision tunnled. His breathing went shallow.