Bones named the figure.
Silas nodded once.
“Reserve covers it,” Bones said. “Hospital and oxygen balances too. Not a lot left afterward.”
“That is what reserves are for.”
Bones sat opposite him. “Some guys are still angry.”
“They can be.”
“You?”
Silas stared into his coffee. “Yes.”
Bones waited.
Silas continued. “I am angry he left. Angry he trusted me so little. Angry he was probably right not to trust what I would have done with the truth.”
“That last one is ugly.”
“Most useful truths are.”
Bones leaned back.
Silas looked toward Elias's photograph. “I spent years imagining revenge for a murder that did not happen when I thought it did. Men got hurt because we were certain about things we did not know.”
Bones said nothing.
Silas's voice dropped. “Then six years later, the past found him anyway.”
“He saved the boy.”
“Yes.”
“That count for anything?”
Silas looked at him. “It counts for everything and does not erase anything. That is the problem.”
By eight, Martin Keene had arranged a meeting at First Valley Savings. Silas insisted Sarah did not need to attend in person; her breathing made travel difficult and the summer heat could trigger coughing fits. Martin drove to the bungalow first, explained every document in plain language, and obtained only the signatures necessary to represent her interests.
Sarah read each page twice.
“I want a copy of everything,” she told him.
“You will get originals where appropriate and certified copies of the rest,” Martin said.
“And no lien from the club.”
“None.”
“No repayment schedule.”
“None.”
“No language about Toby.”
Martin looked almost offended. “There is no child on any financial instrument. This is a mortgage cure and title cleanup, not a medieval oath.”
Sarah studied him for several seconds, then signed.
At the bank, Silas wore a clean white shirt beneath a plain jacket instead of his colors. Bones waited outside because Martin had suggested, diplomatically, that negotiations with a frightened loan officer might proceed more efficiently without a six-foot-three sergeant-at-arms leaning against the wall.
The loan manager, a nervous man named Franklin Webb, had expected Sarah Harris or perhaps a relative. He had not expected Silas Cole.
“I want to make something clear,” Silas said before Webb could begin. “Nobody is asking you to forgive lawful debt. We are paying verified arrears, fees permitted under the contract, and closing costs required to put title where it should have been years ago.”
Webb adjusted his tie. “Of course.”
“If anything is padded because you think the woman is sick and desperate, Martin will find it.”
Martin sighed. “Silas.”
“I am being polite.”
Webb looked at Martin.
“He is,” Martin said.