For the first time, I saw something besides guilt in her. Not innocence. Never that. But the beginning of understanding.
By noon, copies of the drive were in three places. By three, Detective Ramos called. He was an old homicide cop with a voice like gravel in a tin can.
“Mr. Horn, I need you to stay away from Maurice Parker.”
“Is that advice or an order?”
“It is me trying to keep you breathing.”
“Arrest him.”
“For what I can prove today? Intimidation, maybe conspiracy, maybe illegal possession if the warehouse is current. He’ll bond out before dinner. Then the witnesses start disappearing.”
“So do more.”
“We are.”
I heard exhaustion under his anger. Not corruption. Limits.
That mattered.
After the call, Micah and I moved Jacob from Bea’s house to a friend’s cabin outside Sandy. Bea hated it until I showed her the photo of the hospital room. Then she packed without another word.
Jacob asked why we were moving.
“Because I’m being extra careful,” I said.
“Is Darren coming?”
“No.”
“Maurice?”
I looked at him in the rearview mirror. His face was too pale above the casts.
“No one is getting near you.”
He studied me like kids do when they are deciding whether adults still control the world.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I make him mad by asking to call you?”
I pulled over on the shoulder.
The forest around us smelled like pine, rain, and wet soil. I climbed into the back seat and sat beside him.
“No. He got mad because he wanted control, and you showed him you still had a voice.”
“My voice broke my arms.”
“No.” I kept my own voice steady. “His hands did that. His choices. Not yours.”
Jacob stared out at the trees.
“I hate him.”
“Good.”
He looked at me, startled.
“Hate can become poison if you drink it every day,” I said. “But right now? It’s your body telling you someone hurt you. Don’t be ashamed of that.”
When we reached the cabin, Micah checked the perimeter while Bea made soup. Jacob fell asleep on the couch under a quilt, the fox tucked awkwardly beside his cast.
