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"Boo—"

"Go now."

He went.

The outer door opened and shut. Hutchins began making calls in the same slow procedural voice he used for cattle theft and weather closures. I stood alone behind the bars with Josie's note in my enormous hands, careful not to wrinkle it.

I knew where she was going.

I knew what she meant to trade.

And for the first time since she had climbed out of that muddy Ford, I could not put myself between her and the thing coming down the road.

The cell door held.

That was what it was built to do.

Chapter 16

Josie

The soap was the same.

Six months after I had left with four hundred dollars and everything I could fit in a truck bed, the pale green bar still sat in its ceramic dish beside Derek's sink, worn flat on one side from the last morning I had used it. A crescent of dried suds clung to the porcelain beneath it. My old hand towel still hung from the oven handle. The throw pillow I hated still occupied the exact right corner of the couch because Derek had once explained that asymmetry made a room look careless.

The apartment had not waited for me.

It had refused to admit I had gone.

I stood just inside the door with my coat zipped to my throat and my overnight bag hanging from one hand, though overnight bag was generous. It held Clover, two shirts, underwear, a toothbrush, and the charger I had snatched from beside Boone's bed before I left the note.

No plan. No explanation. No permission.

My bag had never felt heavier.

"Shoes, Jojo."

Derek said it lightly behind me. Almost fondly. The old reminder.

My body obeyed before the rest of me arrived. I stepped out of my boots and lined them on the mat, toes even, heels against the wall. Right foot, left foot, nudge the left half an inch because he noticed crooked things.

There.

Perfect.

I looked down at them and felt something cold and clear pass through me.

Six weeks ago, I would not have known I had done it.

Now I watched every movement.

"Good." Derek came around me, carrying himself loose and easy, pleased with the whole arrangement. His apartment. His rules. His runaway returned without him having to raise his voice once. "Put your bag in the spare room. You'll sleep on the couch tonight. We don't need to rush anything."

Magnanimous. That was always his favorite version of himself.

"Okay," I said.

My voice came out soft, agreeable, sanded clean of edges. The voice had been waiting here with the soap.