“She was seven years old.”
The wallet slipped from my hand.
It hit the ground.
Bo flinched.
My knees nearly gave out.
Because thirty years earlier, on a scorching afternoon just like this one…
I had been seven years old.
And I had lost my father on this exact highway.
The same highway where Walter’s dog had been left waiting.
The same highway where Walter somehow expected a stranger to stop.
The same highway where fate had just placed Bo directly in front of me.
And for the first time since this began, I realized Walter Grayson might not have been a stranger at all.
