“I thought you might be tired of lasagna.”

Noelle smiled wearily. “I would have just dumped it down the garbage disposal once you left.” She put the wine in the fridge where Hudson could see about nine different containers probably filled with homemade casseroles, lasagnas, and pasta salads. When Nan died, people brought tinfoil-covered pans to the porch for a month. He froze some of it, then eventually threw it out when every bite began to taste bitter—acrid like ground-up cigarettes. The worst part had been tracking everyone down to return their pans.

Lilah opened the red envelope he gave her, read the card, and thanked him for the fifty-dollar bill.

“We have something for you, too.” Noelle nodded at Lilah, who disappeared around the corner into the living room.

“Oh, you really didn’t have—”

But the sixteen-year-old had already reemerged, holding a box wrapped in blue-and-silver foil paper.

“We wanted to,” said Noelle.

“Open it,” prompted Lilah.

Hudson tore at a corner. The foil slid away to reveal a black wooden box with a glass top. He opened the lid, carefully, and discovered Garrison’s eight-point cap. An invisible fist punched him in the chest and knocked the breath out of his lungs. His eyes burned.

He glanced from Lilah to Noelle. Noelle looked up at him from beneath dark lashes. “He would’ve wanted you to hold on to it.”

Hudson felt his bottom lip quiver. Still gripping the box in his right hand, he pulled them into an embrace. He wanted to say Thank you, but the words that came out, instead, were, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Noelle backed away so she could get a good look at him. “Ryan, what have you got to be sorry for? Brix cherished you. You were his best friend.”

Her words screwed into him like bullets. For best friends, they’d both kept serious stuff from each other. He thought back to finding the faded red ticket among the things Garrison kept in his trauma plate pocket. There was also the fact that, unbeknownst to Garrison, he’d been sleeping with Miserelli for the past six months.

“I should have been there for him,” he said finally. “I should have—”

Noelle pressed her palms to his face, gently hooking her thumbs under his chin. “Listen to me, Ryan. My husband was a steadfast, smart-mouthed, stubborn son of a bitch. He had more honor and integrity in his pinkie finger than most men have in their whole beings—a lot of which came from the values you shared with him. If Brix was hell-bent on taking someone down, he was gonna get it done. No matter what anyone said. No matter where he had to go. So don’t you believe for a second that you being there or not had any effect whatsoever on his death. Understand?”

No matter where he had to go. Hudson replayed her words in his head. A place like The Ruins, perhaps? And what did she mean about taking someone down? A new thought crossed Hudson’s mind: Noelle Garrison knew things no one else did, things that could potentially lead to answers regarding her husband’s demise.