Chapter 11: Edit History

"Don't call her," I said. "Don't text her. Don't ask her one thing."

"Why not?"

"Because she'll cry, and you'll apologize, and I'll have nothing."

Brett looked at the photo on his phone, then at me.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Send me everything she ever gave you."

He did it standing in the parking lot, thumb by thumb, fourteen images and one forwarded receipt.

His phone buzzed once with a text from Shelby: Where are you? Breakfast is ready.

He turned the screen toward me and put the phone in his pocket without answering.

I saw his face when he did it, and for the first time since the auction I thought he might have been wrong in good faith.

That wasn't forgiveness.

It was a crack in a wall.

At the studio Lane was already on the floor under the cutting table, fitting a new corner brace.

He rolled out when he saw the two of us.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm not curious," he said.

"I need someone who knows computers," I said.

"I know contracts. And my nephew knows computers, but he'd charge you."

Brett put the phone on the desk.

"These are what Shelby sent me."

Lane folded his arms.

"Tolbert, I want to say something first."

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