Chapter 15: Eleven Forty

I did not answer him.

I took my hands out of his and rolled backward until he was kneeling alone on the concrete.

Forty drivers watched him get up with wet knees.

Preston looked at the silent trucks, and at the old dispatcher beside my chair, and at Knox by the fence.

Then he walked to his sedan and drove out through the gate without another word.

"We'll be here Monday, Miss Conwell," the dispatcher said.

"Thank you," I said. "Keep the engines off."

Knox held his truck door open for me, and I let him lift me in.

"Where now?" he asked.

"Skylar."

"She won't speak to us."

"She'll speak to me."

Skylar's uncle lived in a narrow brick house on the east side, with three steps up to the porch.

Knox carried the chair up the steps, and I took them one at a time on my arms.

Skylar was already outside.

She sat on the top step in a gray sweatshirt with her knees pulled up, holding her phone in both hands.

Her eyes were swollen.

She had not taken off the thin pearl bracelet.

"Go away, Lydia," she said.

"I will, if you tell me to after you hear this."

"I don't want to hear anything from you."

"It isn't from me."

Knox took his phone out and held it toward her without a word.

She looked at him, and then at the screen, and she did not take it.

"It's a recording of the night of the crash," I said. "The part you need is thirty seconds long. Then you can throw both of us off your porch."

She pressed her lips together.

"Thirty seconds," she said.

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