Page 128 of The Best Shot

“I’m in the middle of⁠—”

“Yasmine.”

I studied his face. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

I hesitated long enough to remind myself I still had a choice. Then I grabbed my keys and followed him out anyway.

Curiosity is a powerful motivator.

Trust is worse.

A few minutes later, we pulled out of my neighborhood and I watched Whitlock Hills slide past the window like a slow reel. The hardware store with its faded awning. The diner with the neon sign that never quite shut off.

Past the feed store the road ran under a stand of live oaks, and the temperature dropped enough that I shivered. Hale reached for the heat without a word.

I didn’t ask where we were going. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.

The silence sat differently between us. Careful. Like we were both trying not to touch that bruise.

He kept both hands on the wheel. I kept mine folded in my lap.

Ten minutes later Hale pulled into the town park and killed the engine.

The evening light was soft, that golden hour I got greedy for. Kids tore across the grass while someone threw a tennis ball for a dog near the far fence.

We walked toward one of the benches. He sat.

I sat beside him, and for a long minute neither of us said anything. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them, and lifted his chin toward the far side of the park.

“See that table?”

I followed his gaze. A concrete chess table sat under one of the trees. An older man leaned over the board, forearms planted on the edge like the position had become permanent years ago.

“I come here Tuesdays and Saturdays,” Hale said. “To play chess with him.”

The man picked up a bishop, held it above the board a moment too long, and set it down two squares from where his hand had started.

“That’s my father.”

My eyes snapped to him, then back to the table. The jaw. The broad shoulders softened by age but still carrying the same shape Hale wore so easily. I’d seen that face younger on a wall at his farmhouse.

“Oh.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

Kids kept running near the fountain. A woman pushed a stroller behind us, the wheels whispering over the path before the sound faded.

“His name is Harry. He has early-onset Alzheimer’s. Diagnosed about eleven years ago.” He said it flat, then rubbed his hands down his thighs, like the motion helped the words keep moving. “Or rather, that’s when I found out. I think he’d been hiding it from me before that. Always just forgetfulness. Stress. Getting older.”

Harry straightened the pieces along his back rank, nudging each one until it sat centered in its square.

“I was finishing my first year of college.” His jaw worked. “They found him three blocks from the shop. Middle of the street. Didn’t know where he was.”

I kept my hands still in my lap and waited.

“I came home.”

“That’s why you never left,” I said softly.