Caleb rubbed his temples. His savings were running low, and his daughter’s college fund wasn’t going to fill itself.
“What exactly did she do?”
“Nothing you could take to court. She’s smart about it. Just makes you feel small, you know? Like you don’t matter.”
Caleb knew that feeling well.
He’d been a long-haul trucker for eight years before his divorce. His ex-wife had said he was never home, never present. Maybe she was right. But driving gave him peace. The road made sense when nothing else did.
“I need the work, Marcus.”
“I know you do. But this woman—Eleanor Whitmore—she’s cold as ice and twice as sharp. You sure you want to deal with that?”
Caleb looked around his apartment: clean but small, practical furniture from the thrift store. A photo of his eight-year-old daughter, Zoe, sat on the coffee table. She was spending the summer with her mom in Atlanta, and he missed her every day.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”
The next afternoon, Caleb drove his old Honda to the address Marcus had given him.
