Izzy shrugged. “He just calls him his great-grandpa. Want me to ask?”

“Yes,” I said, walking over and sitting down on the cushy sectional without asking, digging both pointer fingers into the cuticles surrounding my thumbs.

Izzy got out his phone. While he texted with Casey, muttering half phrases I didn’t understand, I noticed not everything on the walls was full of college spirit. The wall behind where I’d been standing had nothing but framed art by Izzy; he’d signed each piece. There were paintings of mountains, a wolf, Izzy’s mom, flowers, and Izzy himself. It was the best self-portrait I’d ever seen.

Since he was seemingly good at everything, I hadn’t realized Izzy’s preferred art style was painting.

“Nothing to see here,” he said, noticing me looking at his work, waving his hands, his cell still in one. “Besides, I got the deets.”

He came and sat next to me, not too close, but not like he was allergic either. I gave myself a hangnail, then pulled at it, stinging pain shooting through my thumb every time.

“His name’s Richard Allen,” Izzy said. “So, like . . . not William Langley.”

“Longley.”

“Whatever,” he said, smiling.

I sighed, deflated, realizing how badly I’d wanted the man to be Casey’s great-grandpa—how badly I wanted answers.

“No, but wait,” Izzy said. “Hear me out.” He raised his eyebrows like he was asking if I was listening; I gestured for him to keep going. “Casey’s great-grandpa is a killer dude and all, but he has dementia and Parkinson’s disease, so he kinda doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I’m sure he knows his own name,” I said. “The old man I met said his name was William Longley.”

“Weeeelllll,” Izzy said, “that’s the thing. Casey says his great-grandpa tends to agree with everything people say because he doesn’t remember what’s right.”

“But—”

“I just searched that name.” Izzy twisted his lips to the side. “Do you want to search or should I just tell you?”

“Tell.”

“William Longley was a famous gunslinger who died in like the eighteen hundreds or something.” He scratched his face. “Casey says his great-grandpa is obsessed with gunslingers. And the Cowboys.” He paused for a few seconds, then added, “Also, Casey says he shakes because of the Parkinson’s, so he taps his feet or hands a lot to control them or whatever.”

“I’m so stupid,” I said, heat creeping its way up my neck. I covered my face in my hands. “Did you ask what it meant when he asked when the girl was coming back?” My voice was muffled, but Izzy understood me.