"Well, whatever you ran from, you left it behind," George said, patting his shoulder. "The boys at the diner say you're the quietest guy in town. Never complain, never talk about the past. I like that. Most people these days can't stop talking about what they're owed."
"I don't owe anyone anything anymore," Andre said, "and nobody owes me."
"That's a good way to live," George said. He walked back toward the office, leaving Andre alone with the trawler.
Andre looked down at his coffee. He felt a quiet, simple peace. He had survived the prison cell twenty-three years ago. He had survived the brickyards, and he had survived the collapse of his company. He was fifty-four years old, and for the first time in his life, his soul was his own.
His phone—a cheap prepaid flip phone he had bought at a local convenience store—vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was an unknown number from the city. Normally, he would have ignored it, but something in the timing made him press the talk button.
"Andre?" a voice said. It was Mr. Harrison, his old defense attorney from twenty-three years ago, the only man who had remained a distant, professional acquaintance after all these years.
"Harrison," Andre said. "Is something wrong?"
"No," Harrison said, his voice carrying a strange, heavy note of emotion. "For once, Andre, something is very right. You need to come to the city. Or rather, I need to come to you. Where are you?"
"I'm in Blackwood," Andre said. "Why? What happened?"
"The federal investigation into SSS Technologies and Bob's legal practice," Harrison said, his voice trembling slightly. "The marshals seized all of Bob's private servers and physical safe deposit boxes three weeks ago during the forensic audit of his old case files. They found something from twenty-three years ago."
Andre's hand tightened around the paper cup, the hot coffee spilling slightly over the edge. "What did they find, Harrison?"