“And he did not tell you.”
“No.”
That sounded like Elias too: distribute danger in the smallest possible circles, even when secrecy hurt the people he was trying to protect.
Sarah's next words came slowly.
“He started making preparations. He moved some money into an envelope behind the water heater. He gave me instructions about leaving town if he did not come home. He put those keepsakes in the attic box. He told me never to contact anyone from his old life, especially you.”
Silas flinched.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“Why me?”
“Because he knew you would come.”
Silas sat very still.
Sarah's voice softened. “He said you would tear California apart looking for him. And if the wrong people saw that search, they would follow it straight to us.”
Silas looked down.
He had done exactly that.
He had spent months making noise, demanding information, forcing attention onto Elias's disappearance. What he had considered loyalty might have been, from Elias's perspective, the most dangerous possible response.
Sarah saw the realization and did not use it against him.
“He loved you,” she said.
Silas's eyes lifted.
“He talked about you more than anyone else.”
“Then why not trust me?”
“Because he trusted you to behave exactly like yourself.”
Silas gave a humorless breath that almost became a laugh.
Sarah continued. “The night he died, he was driving home late. I was here with Toby. He was just over a year old.”
Toby stared at his mother's hand over his.
“There was a crash on Highway 58,” Sarah said. “The police said Richard lost control. That was the official story.”
“But you do not believe it,” Silas said.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Elias left something.”
Silas leaned forward.
Sarah looked toward Toby.
“In the lockbox,” she said.
Toby frowned. “There were only those things and papers.”
“Under the lining.”
Toby's eyes widened.
Sarah nodded weakly. “There is a false bottom.”
Silas stood so fast the chair scraped the floor.
Toby jumped.
Silas immediately controlled himself. “Where is the box?”
“Attic.”
Toby was already moving.