The man immediately looked up.
“What instruction?”
The lawyer ignored him.
His voice remained calm.
Professional.
Measured.
“Walter requested that whoever found Bo receive a locked cedar box stored at my office.”
I frowned.
“A box?”
“Yes.”
“What’s inside?”
A pause.
Long enough to matter.
“I haven’t opened it.”
That surprised me.
“Why not?”
“Because Walter specifically ordered it remain sealed until Bo chose where he wanted to stay.”
The man barked a laugh.
“That’s insane.”
But nobody else laughed.
Because Walter sounded exactly like the man from the photograph.
A man who understood that some promises aren’t made to people.
They’re made to the creatures who love them without conditions.
The lawyer continued.
“There is one more thing.”
My stomach tightened.
“The box contains a handwritten note marked with your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“Walter didn’t know me.”
“No,” the lawyer said softly.
“He didn’t.”
The heat suddenly felt heavier.
The highway seemed farther away.
“Then why write my name?”
The lawyer exhaled slowly.
“Because the note wasn’t written before he died.”
Nobody spoke.
Not me.
Not Janine.
Not even the man.
“What are you talking about?”
The lawyer’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“The note was written eight years ago.”
I stared at Bo.
Confused.
The dog stared back.
