Pete Larkin sat at the bar.
“You verify it?” he asked.
Silas put the copied report down.
Pete read the name of the second driver and swore.
“So Sarah told the truth.”
“Yes.”
Pete looked toward Elias's photograph. “He died because one of them recognized him.”
Silas nodded.
Pete took a long drink of soda. He had quit alcohol two years earlier and still held the glass like whiskey.
“You know what bothers me?” he said.
“Everything?”
“That too.”
Pete tapped the report. “I spent fifteen years calling him a brother who got killed. Now I find out he walked away from us. I should be furious.”
“You are.”
“I am.”
Pete frowned. “But the kid.”
Silas understood.
The kid changed the geometry of the whole thing.
An adult Elias could be judged for every decision. A ten-year-old Toby could not. Looking at him meant seeing what those decisions had built: a child who existed because Elias had once decided he wanted more than the next fight, the next run, the next retaliation.
Pete sighed. “He have Elias's eyes?”
“Exactly.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“Elias could talk you into repairing his bike for free with those eyes.”
Silas laughed.
It surprised both of them.
Two days later, Sarah called the number on Silas's card.
He answered on the second ring.
“This is Silas.”
Silence.
Then Sarah said, “I need to ask you something.”
“All right.”
“Toby wants to see the clubhouse again.”
Silas sat straighter.
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Silas appreciated the honesty.
“But,” Sarah continued, “I spent years making Elias's past into a locked room. Toby has already broken the door open. If I try to shut it again, he will only learn that truth is something adults hide when it becomes uncomfortable.”