We stayed there a long moment, two people kneeling over a phone with a storm trying to take the roof off.
"First Friday," Knox said again, as if saying it enough would change it. "He does the bank run. He's done it for twenty years."
"I know."
"It isn't proof."
"I know that too." I lowered the phone. "But I think part of you stopped needing proof an hour ago."
He didn't answer. He sat back on his heels, and the lamplight cut his face in half, one side gold, one side shadow. He looked so tired that something in my chest gave way.
"What happens if it's him?" he said quietly. "Not the club. Me. Who am I, if the man who raised me did this?"
"The same man you were this morning."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." I put the phone on the quilt and turned to face him fu
