It was Dean.

Of course.

I wanted to yell, tell him to leave. But I had nothing left. No choice. He offered to help. I let him.

At the police station, I watched him speak fluent Spanish, calm and clear. He remembered details I didn’t. For once, I didn’t have to fix everything. He was doing that.

“They’ll find the guy,” he said. “Stay in my hotel tonight. Two beds. No strings.”

I hesitated but agreed. At the hotel, the silence stretched thick between us.

Finally, Dean asked, “Why are you so angry with me?”

I scoffed. “You really don’t know?”

“I want to.”

“You left Jolene. She cries herself to sleep every night. You broke her.”

He looked at me, eyes softer. “I didn’t leave without saying anything. I told her the truth.”

I didn’t know what shocked me more—his words, or the fact that, for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t the one holding everything together.