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“We have boots here in town,” I said as he directed me toward his truck and camper, which he’d parked in the small parking lot of the old grocery store that I nodded toward. “Right there. Believe it or not, the best boots are in there. There’s some old story about a salesman coming through town fifty years ago. The previous owner, Norma, bought out all the guy’s boots and they just keep getting resupplied.”

“I like that story,” he said.

“It’s probably not true. That’s how we roll around here. Legends, stories. It happens when real life is pretty boring.”

Graham gave me a long look and seemed to almost laugh. “Thanks.”

I noticed the trailer and said, “I have a lab of sorts. If you need it.”

“Thanks. I’ve got something small in the trailer, but I’ll let you know. I’m … sorry about the news. That had to be pretty awful. And, of course, it might not be your father.”

But my father was somehow involved, that seemed clear. Wilmot Dylan’s name was somehow attached to the first set of bones, the man who attacked me, and probably the second set too. It was feeling like Calloway’s instincts about that part had been correct.

“Right. We’ll see,” I said.

Graham nodded. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m a good listener.”

“Who told you that?” I asked trying to add some levity to the moment. It was a weak attempt.

He sent me lifted eyebrows before realizing I was kidding. “No one, but I would do my best to listen if you needed to bend an ear.”

“Thanks, I’m good.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

I nodded and watched him make his way toward the grocery store door, which was locked.

“Sorry about that. Sometimes the store closes early, but it opens every morning at seven.”

“Thanks.” Graham waved and made his way to his truck. Another day and time, I’d be curious about the trailer’s insides.

Now, after I’d driven the short way home and made my way to my lab, I tried again to focus on the past, see if there were any answers lurking there, waiting for me to remember them and solve the present-day mysteries.

This lab was the place where I spoke to Wilmot, though I didn’t do that very often. This was the room where my love for bones had been born. That mountain lion’s femur. It had all been so fascinating. It still was.

I took a deep breath and invited in whatever old images might like to come to me.

My father’s disappearance when I was so young had been a shock and his abandonment had tormented me, but it was also something that had fit with his personality.

Before he left for good, there were mornings when I’d awakened to find him gone, out for a hike to his beloved Vulture Caves, or a drive over the terrain that was so much a part of him that he wouldn’t ever consider a move to a more civilized place like Tucson, let alone somewhere outside of Arizona.

This room was where he did his job. He’d worked day and night, tirelessly on a project, until it was finished. Once the final touches were in place, he’d need time to himself. It never occurred to him that leaving me alone for a day or so was the wrong thing to do to a kid. I’d figured it out. We’d figured it out.

“I left a note,” he’d say when he came back home, and I asked where he’d been.

I’d go with him on hikes sometimes, my legs always working double-time to keep up.

“Aw, little bit, I’m sorry,” he’d say. “I’ll slow down. Here, you go ahead and set the pace.”

I would slow him and his exuberance down every time, but he never complained. He’d point out tracks and scat, knowing exactly which creature had left them. He’d see animals that I didn’t immediately.

One day, we came upon a fox caught in trap.

“Oh, God damn it,” Wilmot had said. He’d hated traps.

“Do we put it out of its misery?” my ten-year-old self had asked.

Wilmot studied the fox and sighed heavily. “Nope. I’m going to free it.”