She stood there staring at it, until a voice behind her said, low and rough with disbelief—
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Evelyn turned slowly.
A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against morning light. He was old—older than her, maybe—wearing a feed cap and overalls that had seen better decades. His face was a map of weather and work, but his eyes were sharp.
For a second, she couldn’t speak. It felt like looking at a photograph that had stepped out of its frame.
“Cal?” she managed.
He stepped inside, boots crunching on glass and debris.
“Evelyn Hart,” he said, like saying her name was an act of respect. “Heard you were getting out. Didn’t believe it until just now.”
Caleb Mercer. Her father’s best friend. The man who taught her how to change a tire when she was twelve and how to check oil without burning yourself. The man who’d been at her trial, one of the few who’d shown up to support her, even though it hadn’t done a damn thing.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Caleb said.
