“How did my parents know Shawn Stokes?”

Grace is barely inside the house before I pelt her with my question. Her body shielded by a half-dozen plastic grocery bags hanging from her arms, I can’t read her face, but the way she’s paused—frozen—speaks volumes.

“Why is Shawn Stokes in a picture with me and my parents?” My question lingers a second time, and I wait until Grace begins to move again, taking a few of the bags from her arm as she ambles into the kitchen.

I wait impatiently as she begins unpacking bags of chips, bread, snacks, and other essentials—things she’s bought for Kyle and my road trip, and I want to appreciate how kind she’s being, but all I can do is bounce on my legs, anxious to know what that photo means. She’s working on the third bag when I tug it away from her.

“Grace, please,” I say, my heart now pounding so hard my hands tremble with the beat. I know I’m not adopted. My dad had a paternity test done after my mom left, and I’ve seen photos of her pregnant with me. I’ve heard the story about the long hours in labor. I’m theirs…genetically. But then how does Shawn fit into our little family photo?

My grandmother pulls a chair out from the table, patting the one closest for me to join her. For the first time since I’ve been here, I notice her eyes fall to my leg as I slide into my seat.

“That was from the bridge.” Her eyes flit to mine waiting for my confirmation and back to my leg.

I nod.

“I saw it on the news, and I called your dad. He gave me a few updates as you recovered,” she says.

“I’ve learned to live with it,” I shrug. “I’ve been working with a trainer…to compete again. I play softball.”

Her lips stretch and curve on the ends, and I’m suddenly filled with this need to defend myself, to explain that it isn’t just a cute hobby for me. Competing is life.

I lean forward on my elbows and look at her sideways, square in the eyes. “I’m good.”

The curve of her mouth pulls into her cheeks and her eyes crinkle at the edges.

“I hear you’re really good,” she says, sliding her hand palm-down along the table closer to me.

I’m not used to affection like this, and my reciprocation is slow and awkward, but when her hand grips mine, my fingers seem to automatically know how to hold her back. Her hand is cool, her skin soft, age spots and blue from veins coloring the top. I wonder if this is how my hands will look one day.

“I promised you I would tell you everything I could, but some things might be better left in boxes,” she says, holding my hand a little harder, perhaps feeling my urge to run. I don’t blink as I stare at her eyes—this piece of the puzzle is too important to forgo just because of a little pain.

“I’m prepared,” I say.

She reaches forward with her other hand, and I mimic her movement, turning in my chair until she’s holding both of my hands. It’s the most uncomfortable position I’ve ever been in, being touched like this, but I think maybe it’s more for her than me, so I breathe deeply and take it.

“I shouldn’t have put that photo in the box. I didn’t realize, but I suppose…I suppose it’s too late. And maybe you really should know the full story. I take it by your question, you remember Shawn?” Her head falls to the side and her eyes soften.

“He’s…” I’m not sure what he is—he’s important; he’s a clue; he’s Wes’s uncle…sort of. “It’s weird, how I know him, but he was the caseworker for a guy I know that was adopted. He’s also the boy’s uncle…his brother adopted my friend.”

She nods, almost as if she already knew this part.

“Am I…adopted?”

The question stumbles from me sloppily, sounding ridiculous in my ears, but I’m relieved when my grandmother laughs in response anyhow. The breath I had been holding rushes out, and I laugh sadly with her.

“Sweetheart, no. Though, perhaps after the things I’ve told you today, you wish you were,” she says, letting go of my hands and leaning back, her eyes still on mine. “No…you weren’t adopted. But…those first few years…they were…rough.”

My brow draws in.

“I think your mom thought having you would be the missing piece…solve all of her problems, end the fighting with your dad,” she says.

Except for that last argument, I don’t have vivid memories of my parents fighting. I recall yelling, sometimes. I’d usually busy myself, or go outside. I was avoiding without even realizing it. There were a lot of times when the two of them were apart, too—my dad working late, my mom going to bed early. And there were periods where they wouldn’t talk to each other at all—sometimes for days. They were good at pretending for me, I guess.

“Shawn was your neighbor, at least until you were about two, maybe three, and you spent almost every day during that time at his house.”

I scratch away inside my head, desperate for something that recognizes what she’s saying, but I can’t find a single thread—I don’t remember anything from then. The photo of him, his face—it isn’t familiar because of those years, it’s only familiar because of now.

“It was a long time ago.” She chuckles. She must sense my frustration at not remembering.

“Didn’t he go to work? Did I go with him? Did I sleep there?” I ask my questions in a rush.

“Sometimes,” she says, applying that word to all three. “He had an extra room. You liked it when he had other kids, clients that he needed to find homes for. There was this one boy…”

She leans back and shuts her eyes, tilting her chin to the ceiling, smiling through a breathy laugh, and I know...

“You were both maybe two, and you fought over every toy that man had in his house. But you’d cry, and that sweet boy,” she pauses to chuckle again. “He’d always give you your way.”

Everything inside my chest is heavy, doing a slow slide down my ribs on the inside, my body sinking, my shoulders falling. I feel sick.

“Do you remember his name?” My pulse pounds in my ears.

Grace’s mouth scrunches just before she speaks. “Josselyn, I hardly remember what day of the week it is.”

My pulse stops.

“But I’ll tell you this…I’ve never seen a pair of bluer eyes on a child in my whole life.” Her hands flatten to pat the table to punctuate how special this boy’s eyes were before she gets up and busies herself putting away her own groceries and packing a travel bag for us.

My lips quiver with his name, and I almost don’t want to say, because it would be just one more strange thing, but at the same time—I have to know. “Wes,” I hum.

My eyes wide on her back, I wait for any sign that I’m right. She keeps unpacking and moving things from one bag to another, and disappointment starts to wash through my veins when she pauses and bunches her brow, a box of crackers in her hand.

“You know, maybe…that sounds right. It was something short like that. How amazing that you could remember!” She titters, returning to her work.

I don’t remember. It doesn’t mean I don’t know it in my gut, though.

“Do you know where Shawn moved to?”

It’s been years, probably fifteen, but on the off chance…

“I didn’t know him very well. Your mom and he were pretty close, I guess. When she was at home while she was on bed rest, pregnant with you, he would stop by and check on her. It turned into a daily thing, and your dad didn’t really mind because Shawn…well, he wasn’t really the hunk-type, and your dad was so worried about her pregnancy—you, my dear, were not easy.” She glances over her shoulder at me, her mouth tucked in on one side and her eyes squinted.

“Nothing new there.” I laugh, standing from the table, fairly confident that I’m going to end this trip with the full picture of just how poisonous my parents’ marriage was, but not a single clue that will help me find Wes.

I leave Grace to finish in the kitchen and make my way to the spare room. I’m careful with the handle as I push it down and slide the door open, but Kyle’s awake on the bed, hands folded behind his neck, elbows out, knees bent as he rolls his head to the side to watch me come in.

“It’s creepy as shit in here. I think I was better off in that sewing room on the floor,” he says, scooting backward and propping himself up on his elbow. I lay down next to him in the same position, and he reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ear then lightly pinches my chin as he smiles at me.

“I don’t know what I was thinking with any of this,” I say, blinking once, my mouth a hard line to match my hardening heart.

Kyle squints at me, then rolls to his stomach folding his hands under his cheek, resting his head sideways as he studies me.

“You were thinking that you’d just do this all yourself,” he says.

I roll my eyes and puff out a breath.

“Do what myself?”

Kyle’s body rises with his deep breath, and the smile fades from his eyes and mouth.

“Nobody’s really looking for him. They’ve all given up. But not you.” Kyle reaches toward me again, giving my chin the same pinch as before. He leaves his hand there and stares at me through dozens of breaths. “I believe you.”

I suck in my lip at those simple words. I’d told Kyle everything I could remember, about how Wes caught the rock, about how strong he was, how he never had more than a scratch or two, and how I got the mysterious texts. It sounded insane as I spoke the words to him, and he never responded out loud. He just listened.

And he drove. He drove me here.

“You think he’s alive?” My lips quake when I speak, and my eyes pool, so I smoosh my face against the cool sheets to hold it together.

Kyle brushes my tangled hair away from my face again, this time cupping my cheek.

“I do,” he says. “And we’re going to find him.”

I reach my hand up to cover his and whisper, “Thank you.”

We were supposed to go to my mom’s grave today. I don’t want to anymore. I buried her a long time ago, really. This trip was more about Grace, I think. Or at least, it’s become more about her…her and me.

I sit up and rub my palms against my eyes, wondering if Kyle and I will ever get to sleep tonight before we wake up early tomorrow to start our trip to nowhere. I know Shawn doesn’t live far from Bakersfield, because he made the drive to pick up Wes’s things. I’m hopeful that asking around at a few places, maybe convenience stores in small towns, might give us a tip. I don’t really have a solid plan beyond that, but I’m going to keep looking for as many days as Kyle is willing to drive.

“Josselyn,” Grace says, her voice soft behind me, the tone delicate…cautious. She has something bad to say. I turn to see her standing in the now-opened doorway. She moves closer to me, handing me the small bag of toiletries she assembled. I take it from her and offer a crooked smile, my guard heightened behind my expression, though—waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Kevin,” she says. My body starts to tremble with adrenaline. “You should see him.”

“No.” I can’t even mask my cold, immediate response. I feel bad when Grace flinches, but no…Kevin is the devil. Forget my mom. Kevin is the villain.

I notice Grace’s eyes shift to Kyle. She exhales and bunches her lips in thought, and before I can shift my position enough to block her view, Kyle engages.

“Why?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter, why, Kyle.” I swivel fast and my eyes bore into him, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw pops.

One blink and a tilt of his head only pisses me off more.

“We’re not seeing Kevin,” I say, drawing my line, which Kyle steps over immediately as he gets up from the bed and walks closer to Grace.

“Do you think he could tell her things, too? About her mom?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Grace says, pulling her lips in tight.

“I think I’ve learned enough for this trip. I’m full. All filled up,” I say, standing to join them, three of us in a standoff at the doorway, arms crossed over our chests—two against one.

The more breaths that pass with absolute silence between us all, I can feel Kyle’s loyalty practically in a tug of war next to me. I’m ending it here. I’m ending it all.

“Whatever it is you’re looking for, sweetheart…” Grace speaks before I have the chance. It’s the first time she’s not said my name to me, and it wasn’t a condescending voice. There’s no demand in her tone, no authority. It’s something I’ve seen so little of lately. It’s faith. “Maybe it’s closure between you and your mama. Maybe it’s something else. That’s not for me to know, but Josselyn, you’ll never be at peace until you’ve turned over every rock in your journey.”

“Kevin’s one hell of a rock,” I say.

She smiles while Kyle breathes out a laugh.

“Yes, to you he is. But he’s not a horrible man. I’ve come to like him over the years, and…” she holds up a hand, knowing where my gut is leading my mouth. “You don’t have to ever like him. You are right to feel that way, and your circumstances lend to it. But he is a piece of your puzzle. And maybe…just maybe…he knows something you need to know.”

My eyes flit to her and I search her face for more meaning behind those words. Why did she choose those words?

“Where is he? I’m…I’m not saying we will see him, I’m just…if I decide to, how far out of the way is he?” My hands start to tremble at the thought of seeing Kevin—his face from one of the worst days of my life is permanently etched in my memory. I’ve tried to erase it for years, but it’s always there—lingering, like a demon that shows up in dreams to steal pieces of my soul.

“He’s near the university. He took a job there, which is the only reason your mother and I reconnected as much as we did. I’m sure if it were up to her, she never would have set foot in the same state I’m in.”

Grace doesn’t wince. There aren’t any tears when she talks of my mom. She shrugs, as if she lost a two-dollar bet on a horse race. But when I stare at her long enough, drilling down deep into her eyes, waiting for the moments where the façade breaks…just a little…I see it. My mom—she left her, too.

And it hurts.

My grandmother leaves Kyle and me alone, asking that I “think about it.” Kyle doesn’t prod, even though I can sense the voice in his head that’s trying to send me a signal, willing me to see Kevin. I don’t make my decision until morning, when Kyle and I are packing the truck and winding up the charging cord for our phones that we have to share.

“I don’t want to stay there long,” I say.

Kyle doesn’t turn around. He continues fitting bags and boxes in the back of his truck, making sure the food is kept cool in the small space behind the seats.

“All right,” he says, again without looking.

I smile as I watch him—my best friend. He doesn’t want me to run.

“All right,” I echo, my lip curling on the right as I lift the case of water to the tailgate for him to slide toward the cab.

After hugging Kyle, Grace meets me at the passenger side of the truck. She waits until Kyle’s door is shut, then hands me a small paper along with an envelope. I can tell without peeking inside that it’s filled with money, and I instantly refuse.

“Take it,” she says, folding my fingers around it, covering my hands with her own. I notice the similarities when we touch, the same wrinkles I’ll probably wear one day. “I wrote down directions to Kevin’s. And there’s two hundred dollars in there, for emergencies or maybe…maybe you two stop and have a nice dinner on your drive home.”

My closed lips bend and my cheeks dimple with the automatic smile. My dad was right about this one thing—he knew I would like Grace.

“Thank you, Grandma,” I say, and I can tell leaving her with that word, calling her that, was important the moment she embraces me, pulling me tight against her as one hand cradles my head as we hug.

“I love you, sweetheart. And your mama did, too…in her way,” she says quietly in my ear.

I nod, sniffling as I step back from her and climb quickly into the cab. I smile through the passenger window and press my hand against the glass to say goodbye, but Kyle can hear the change in my breathing, and he recognizes what I need. As he backs out of the driveway, he holds my other hand, and when we’re out of Grace’s view, he squeezes it tight while I let the tears run hot along my cheeks. I feel it all for three blocks, maybe four, and then I put the hurt back away, drying my face on my arms.

“Where to?” Kyle asks.

Unfolding the paper Grace gave me, I get my bearings and figure out we need to turn left to get to the highway. I guide Kyle along the thirty-minute drive that brings us close to the city. I find the exact house on my phone’s map, and it doesn’t take much longer for Kyle to park us across the street from it a few minutes later.

Turning the ignition off, Kyle lets the keys dangle as he sits back and stares out the window with me. We wait for minutes in silence.

“I know you don’t want to push me,” I say. “But you’re going to have to. I don’t want to do this.”

“Then we’ll just go,” he says, quickly.

I roll my head to the side to look at him as he does the same.

“You don’t mean that,” I say.

He shakes his head and smiles faintly.

“No,” he says. “I don’t.”

My eyes on my friend’s, I breathe in deep several times, trying to fill my lungs and make my chest iron—willing myself stronger.

“I hate him,” I say.

“I know,” Kyle answers.

I nod, just glad that he’s given me permission to still feel this way.

“Right,” I say. Marching orders to myself.

I open my door as Kyle does the same, and together we walk without stopping until we’re in front of a blue door with a stained-glass center. I press the doorbell button before I chicken out, and within a blink, I see movement behind the colored glass. My right hand starts to tremble and my left frantically searches for my friend’s. Even when he holds it, I still shake uncontrollably, but the moment the man with gray hair, cut short like a military general, opens the door, my tremors stop.

His features are similar to my memory of him, but he’s worn. His eyes have circles under them, deep with sags, and his cheeks are fuller. He’s growing a beard, and he’s traded the Cal State sweatshirt for a deep-blue collared shirt with his name embroidered over his heart: KEVIN TOWLE. I never even knew his last name. I chuckle lightly to myself, smirking as I pronounce it in my head—towel.

As terrified as I was just before the door opened, Kevin is twice as afraid now. His face pale, he hasn’t taken a breath in the several seconds he and I have just stared at one another. He recognizes me—that much is certain. I’m not sure how, though—I look nothing like that child he destroyed with his inability to keep his dick to himself and out of my parents’ marriage. We didn’t send my mom photos.

“Did Grace tell you I was coming?” My voice comes out strong, and getting through this first hurdle bolsters my confidence even more.

Kevin’s head shakes rapidly as he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose.

“No.” His voice is weak, so gravelly, just that single word makes him cough.

“Can I come in?” I’m growing bolder.

Kevin nods, pushing the door wide as Kyle and I step inside. The house looks like my mom. It’s the Kristina Winter’s touch—I recognize it in the pale colors on the walls, the white furniture throughout the house, the wooden floors chosen in a shade to hide the dirt. It’s a small space—a historic home on an immaculate street with driveways filled with expensive cars. It’s nothing at all like Bakersfield. I bet she was happy here.

“It’s nice,” I say, spinning to look at Kevin. He’s leaning against a wall near the doorway. He’s afraid to let me too far inside.

“We renovated when we moved in,” he says, his voice fading into the sound of him clearing his throat.

I breathe out a short laugh and turn to look around some more, finding my own way through the hallway to a small sitting room across from the kitchen. Kevin has no choice but to follow, and Kyle stays by my side.

My hand grazes along the arm of a cream canvas sofa, and I close my eyes picturing the yellow and green one we have at home—holes taped closed on the corners, wooden legs scuffed from cleats and vacuum cleaners. Our couch is older than I am, and this one looks like a showroom piece. I decide I don’t want to sit on it.

“I’m not sure why I’m here really,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and shifting my weight. My eyes move to Kevin in fits. I can’t seem to look at him long.

“Your mom…she wanted to see you...”

I chuckle.

“No, she didn’t,” I say through a tight smile that hides the bile taste forming at the back of my throat.

Kevin’s eyes sag and he moves to a chair across from the couch. Sitting, he brings his elbows to his knees, leaning forward as he clasps his hands together, fidgeting. I notice the gold band he’s still wearing, and I have to look away again.

“She did…at the end. I know…” he stops to exhale, and the sound brings my gaze back to him. It’s his turn to look somewhere else. Eyes on the floor now, he continues.

“I know it was probably too little too late, but when Kristina was sick, she did a lot of…I don’t know…soul searching I guess?” He looks up, and for the first time our eyes lock, and the jolt of it presses my heart fast against my bones.

“It was too late,” I say, pushing my voice to be strong, to hide the crumbling inside.

“I know,” Kevin responds in a whisper.

I cross the room to the kitchen side and drag my hand along a smooth, granite counter, then open a cabinet door to see stacks of patterned dishes inside. A set.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Kevin asks. I pause with my back to him and my fingers curled around the handle of a drawer.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, pulling the drawer open to see shined silver spoons, knives, and forks. I let go and give the drawer a tiny push and watch it close the rest of the way on its own.

“I’m fine, too. Thank you,” Kyle says. I smile with my face away from them because I know my friend could be dying from thirst and he’d turn down Kevin’s offer just to show solidarity with me.

“You know the molding around our kitchen floor is missing?” I turn to face Kevin again, meeting his eyes. His mouth is turned down, sour because I’m making him feel uncomfortable. “Yeah, it’s funny—my dad and I were trying to fix the sink once, and we didn’t turn the water all the way off, so the whole room just flooded,” I say, laughing through my words. “Nearly a decade and we still haven’t replaced the wood.”

Kevin blinks slowly, and his mouth remains a straight, emotionless line. I lean into the counter behind me, resting my palms on the edge, and stare at him while my teeth chew at the soft tissue inside my lip. A minute passes without a word, and then…

“I’m not going to apologize,” he says, and my heart begins to kick wildly, the rhythm felt in my stomach, my toes, my fingertips.

“I didn’t come here for one,” I spit back, my fingers on my right hand tapping along the underside of the counter where I grip it. It’s true; I didn’t come here seeking that. It doesn’t mean he shouldn’t say sorry, and it doesn’t mean I don’t want him to grovel and beg for forgiveness. I just don’t expect it.

Kevin’s eyes move to my leg, and I wait while he stares. He won’t ask. I’m sure he’s heard from Grace.

“I loved her. And your dad is a drunk who didn’t treat her right,” he says, eyes flitting to mine again.

My breathing picks up speed at the mention of my father. Months ago, I would have agreed with him. Hell, I would have high-fived him and probably run away to live here instead of in the misery that was Bakersfield, but that was before…before everything.

“Was a drunk,” I say.

Kevin’s eyes glower.

I shrug my right shoulder and push away from the counter to come back to the sitting room. “He got sober. I lost my leg. He and I are closer now, and you are still a homewrecker,” I say, every word feeling as good as I’d imagined it would.

“You feel better?” Kevin stands, running his hand through his thinning hair. He’s still trembling, though not as much.

“Nope,” I shake my head.

We both avert our eyes for a few long seconds, and eventually Kevin leaves the room, heading into a bedroom in the back.

“This was a mistake,” I say to Kyle while we’re alone.

“You keep saying that about everything,” he smirks.

“Shut up,” I say, tugging the collar of his T-shirt and motioning for him to follow me back toward the front door.

Kevin cuts us off on our way, an old yellow envelope in his hands.

“Before you go,” he says, fidgeting with it before finally handing it to me.

I don’t reach for it right away, not sure I want to know what’s inside. Like coming in here, looking in there might just make me feel worse.

“Take it,” he says. “They’re pictures, mostly. A lot of them of you. Your mom sorted them, and she could never throw them away. She kept them in this envelope, and you…you should have them. They mean something to you, or maybe they will. I don’t know.”

I grip the envelope and hold it against my chest, nodding as I look down to our feet.

“All right,” I say.

“Joss, I wish I had more to give you. I wish I had more to say, but I just…I don’t,” Kevin says. “I’m not sorry I loved your mom, and I don’t regret my life with her. But I am sorry you were hurt as a result. I can say that.”

I pull in my lips and suck, fighting the urge to tell him to go fuck himself.

“All right, then,” I decide on. It’s laced with an F-U, and that’s enough.

Kyle opens the door, and I follow him back out to our truck. Kevin doesn’t linger to watch us leave, and I hear the door close behind us after our first few steps outside. We don’t speak for several miles, not saying a word until Kyle pulls onto the highway, pointing us back toward home. I don’t even want to search for Wes anymore. I’m no closer than I was days ago. I have nowhere to begin.

“Where to?” my friend asks.

“Home,” I say, sighing as my head nestles against the window.

“Okay,” Kyle says, turning on the stereo, searching for any decent station to come in. He settles on an alt rock one.

We drive the straight line through the desert for almost an hour before I move. I think about closing my eyes, but sleeping on the road has never been easy for me. I feel the sun’s heat against the glass, and it grows warmer every minute until I have to move my head away. My eyes catch the envelope that I’ve wedged between the doorway and the seat, so I reach for it and pull it into my lap.

“You sure you want to open that now?” Kyle asks.

“Why not,” I shrug.

Kyle turns his attention back to the road while I slide out a stack of photos and cards, setting them on top of the envelope. I flip through several photos first—most of them baby photos of me, or pictures of me as a toddler. One of me covered in mud makes me laugh and I hold it up for Kyle to see.

“Ha, even then—always willing to get dirty,” he laughs.

I sneer at him, but pucker my lips in a tight smile and put the photo back in the stack on my leg. I flip through a few cards, next. They’re birthday cards for me that my mom never sent—one for twelve, one for thirteen, and finally one for eighteen. I open that one because my birthday was two weeks ago, which means she bought this one in advance...before she died.

The message inside is short, but her handwriting is still the same. I let my thumb follow the curve of her J as I read.

Dear Joss,

I wish I got to see you turn eighteen. I could never explain, but I just had to. I was suffocating. Never because of you. I hope you do something big with your life.

Love,

Mom

The words should make me cry, but they don’t. I read the note twice and feel nothing. I don’t bother with the other birthday cards, and I gather everything into a pile and push it back inside. My fingers feel something along the inside as I do, though, and I take one last envelope out to look at. It’s a letter, addressed to my mom. There’s no name, but the return address says LAKE ISABELLA.

The paper is crisp and yellowed at the edges as I pull it out, so I unfold it carefully. The writing is faint pencil that’s been smudged in a few places, but I’m able to make out the words at the top.

Kristina,

I heard you and Eric divorced. I’m very sorry. I hope I’m not intruding, but I tracked down your address online. I hope this is the right one. I wanted to make sure you were all right, and I wanted to make sure Josselyn was taken care of. I worry about her, with Eric’s drinking. Please do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, especially with Joss. I love that girl as if she were my own.

I hope you find much happiness.

Your friend,

Shawn

I grip Kyle’s arm instantly and sit up straight in the seat, flipping the page over and looking for more. That’s all he wrote, but that’s enough. The envelope—that’s enough. I let go of Kyle, who has now stopped on the side of the highway, other cars whizzing by at high speeds.

“It’s him,” I say, unfolding the letter again and pointing to the name.

Kyle squints to look at it, then takes it in his hand.

“Shawn…that…you think it’s that Shawn?” My friend’s eyes widen on mine.

“It has to be,” I say swallowing hard and looking at the address on the envelope, my hands shaking as I try to type the numbers in on my phone’s map. Kyle plugs the charger in to his truck and gives me the other end so I don’t run out of juice. Shawn was always home for Wes. When foster families gave up on him, he’d end up back in Shawn’s care. The man has been Wes’s one constant—as a social worker, and as an uncle who knew Wes belonged with the Stokes family along with Levi and TK.

“Lake Isabella,” I say.

“That’s so close to home,” he says.

I nod, my stomach fluttering, my pulse racing throughout my body.

Kyle shifts the gear and looks over his shoulder, pulling us back onto the highway, his foot heavy on the gas. I watch his speedometer approach a hundred before he eases off, but he doesn’t let up much.

He believes it’s the right Shawn, too. And even more—he believes we’re close.

We’re close to finding Wes.