Page 80
Boston doesn’t answer, silence stretching thick and uncomfortable.
My pulse starts to climb.
“Boss?”
His jaw tightens. “Not really,” he says so quietly, I almost miss it.
“But… you need to change,” I say, matching his volume.
“Yeah,” he breathes, then swallows hard.
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“Boss?” I whisper and reach out to him, resting a hand on his forearm. It feels cool despite the warm summer breeze.
His eyes close, a heavy, resigned sigh escaping his chest.
And that’s when everything clicks into place.
His disappearance.
Three jobs.
His things. Things that hint at wilderness. At camping. At… survival.
“Boss?” I try to swallow the jagged lump in my throat. “Where do you keep your clothes?”
For a long moment, he just stares at the pavement between us. Then, “Usually in my trunk.”
I inhale a shaky breath, looking between him and his car, then back again.
“Usually?” I repeat weakly.
His throat bobs. “Yeah.”
“And right now?”
The silence that follows is unbearable.
A car pulls out of the parking lot. Voices float over from the restaurant, and somewhere in the far-off distance, sirens wail.
Boston drags a hand over the back of his neck. “At Jake’s.”
The knot in my throat grows. “Why?”
His eyes meet mine—gray and exhausted—looking like someone who’s spent a very long time carrying something alone.
“It’s where I’m staying.”
My chest tightens, but I nod. I already knew. I think I’ve known for the last minute and just haven’t wanted to admit it.
His gaze drops to the asphalt. “I don’t have a home, Skye.”
“What do you mean you don’t have a home?”
“I don’t have a home,” he repeats. “I just have—” He gestures at the car.
“You live in your car?” My voice comes out small. Cracked.
