Chapter 13: The Locker

The lock on Sawyer's locker gave way on the first snap of the bolt cutters.

The older firefighter, the one who had eaten the sandwiches, handed the cutters back to the young one.

"If anyone asks, I did it alone," he said.

"Nobody does anything alone here," the young firefighter said.

It was Thursday night, and the firehouse was empty except for the three of us.

Sawyer's spare helmet sat on the top shelf, and under it a framed photo of him shaking the mayor's hand.

I knelt and pulled out the drawer under the bench.

There was a stack of pay stubs, a pair of wool socks, and a cheap black phone with a cracked corner.

The battery was dead.

The young firefighter plugged it into the charger on the kitchen wall, and we stood around it and waited.

When it lit, it had no passcode.

Sawyer had never thought anyone would open that drawer.

There was one old message in the inbox, from Terrence's number.

It was dated early on the Sunday morning after the cabin.

"I'm not sorry about last night," Terrence had written. "I want to see you again. Call me, whatever you decided."

Under it, the phone showed the message had been read.

Sawyer had read it, and then he had come to my door with my lost phone in his hand and a story about where he'd found it.

I sat down on the locker room bench with the phone in both hands.

"Ma'am," the young firefighter said. "Do you want us to leave?"

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