“What is this, Beau? I know what she looks like.” Before I could get a word in, he continued, “Is she in trouble or something?” I’d kill anyone who hurt her. Jesus, Beau. Get it together. I rolled my neck, nostrils flaring. “Denver, I haven’t talked to her in six years, haven’t even seen her in three,” I told him. “I went to grab your tool bag from the laundry room, and this fell down from the shelf.” His brows furrowed again. “In—in my laundry room?” I nodded once. “I’ve been looking for this photo forever. When I couldn’t find it, I just assumed it was lost.”
