Chapter 11 · The Bombing Photo

The car key sits in my palm like a live grenade.

Locke drives in silence. No music. No questions. Just the hum of the engine and the glow of streetlights sliding across his face every few seconds. His jaw's tight. Knuckles white on the wheel.

I turn the key over. Blood's dried black in the grooves. Dad's keychain—the little brass compass I gave him when I was twelve—still dangles from the ring.

"You don't have to do this," Locke says. His voice is flat. Controlled. Like he's trying real hard not to grab the key and throw it out the window.

"Yeah. I do."

"Vito wants you walking into that railyard alone. You get that, right?"

I press my thumb against the compass. The metal's cold. "So you coming or not?"

He doesn't answer. Just takes the next turn harder than he needs to.

The old railyard is exactly where Vito said it'd be. Exit 9, past the overpass, down a access road that hasn't seen maintenance in about a decade. Locke kills the headlights before we pull in. Gravel crunches under the tires.

"Stay in the car," he says.

"Not a chance."

He looks at me. Really looks.