"You still got my number?"
"I called it."
"I know."
Marcus sat on the curb beside Ethan.
Not on a bench.
Not leaning on a wall.
The curb.
Same posture as Ethan.
Forearms resting on his knees.
Like he'd done it before.
Like sitting there didn't bother him.
"Tell me about this guy Cole."
Ethan told the story again.
Shorter.
More precise.
The way you tell something the second time after the facts have already arranged themselves.
Cole in the shelter dinner line.
The witnesses.
The property manager.
The backpack.
Marcus listened.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't make the noises people make when they are technically listening but mostly waiting for their turn to speak.
He simply listened.
When Ethan finished, Marcus remained quiet.
"You know where Cole is now?"
"He moves around. I could probably find him."
"I'm not asking you to find him. I'm asking whether you know."
"Not right now."
Marcus nodded.
"What about the witnesses? You know who they are?"
"I have a guess. Two guys he runs with. But a guess isn't proof."
"No," Marcus said. "It isn't."
He thought for several seconds.
Then looked at Ethan.
"Here's what I want you to understand. What this man is doing isn't just about you. He's using your name to make people believe something that isn't true."
Marcus paused.
"That's a specific kind of wrong."
Another pause.
"I don't tolerate that. My people don't tolerate it. Understand?"
"You don't have to get involved."
"You returned my wallet."
Marcus said it as though that settled the question.
"In my world, that means I'm already involved."
The matter-of-factness knocked something loose inside Ethan's chest.
Something hard.
Calcified.
A weight he'd carried so long he no longer noticed it.
Ethan looked away.
"I don't want trouble."
"You're already in trouble."
Marcus's tone remained practical.
"What you don't want is more trouble. That's different."
He stood.
Pulled out his phone.
Made one call.
Short.
Efficient.
Three sentences.
Ethan caught a name.
Ricky.
An address.
And the words, "Find me what you can."
Marcus ended the call.
"You eating tonight?"
"I'm fine."
"You said that at the diner, too."
Marcus looked at him.
"Didn't seem accurate then either."
Ethan nearly repeated it.
Stopped himself.
"No," he admitted. "I haven't eaten."
"Come on."
The diner they visited wasn't the one off Route 17.
It was smaller.
A few miles south.
The kind of place that had looked essentially the same for 30 years and saw no reason to change.
Marcus ordered without opening a menu.
The waitress wrote everything down without asking questions.
Clearly a familiar arrangement.
They sat in a booth at the back.