Tobias waited under a tree.
He had followed me after all.
I glared.
“You said you wouldn’t.”
“I said I wouldn’t come near you.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
I almost laughed.
He smiled.
Then I noticed something.
An old wheelchair sat folded beside his car.
I stared.
“Why do you still have that?”
He looked at it.
“Couldn’t throw it away.”
“Why?”
He thought for a moment.
“Because I hate it.”
“That’s usually a reason to throw things away.”
“Maybe.”
He walked over.
He placed one hand on the chair.
“For years, it kept me alive.”
I understood.
Not the chair itself.
The lie.
The disguise.
The invisibility.
He folded it.
Then placed it in the trunk.
A month later, he donated it.
We never discussed it.
We did not need to.
Five years after the river, I testified before a maritime corporate ethics panel.
Not about the murder.
About governance.
Hidden control.
Family companies.
How personal relationships could become financial vulnerabilities.
I did not mention Garrett by name.
Everyone knew.
Afterward, a woman approached me.
