“Because it’s the truth,” I said. “The absolutely insane truth. Look, I know it’s weird, but I care about Wynonna. I want what’s best for her. She’s been hurting for so long, and I want to help her, and I think the only way to help her is through you. Remember when I told you about there being two people inside me? THIS IS WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT. There’s Wynonna and then there’s me! Ezra Slevin!”

Roscoe’s hurt and confusion were morphing rapidly into resentment. Maybe even anger.

“Remember that boy in the car with me? When you were following us, and he got out, and yelled at you? That was Wynonna. That was her inside my body. And yes, she still hates you, but you’ve got to believe me when I say this: All I ever wanted was to help. I just wanted her to have a family again, Roscoe. That’s all.”

That was all.

The Band-Aid was off. The wound was exposed. I had nothing left to say.

All I could do was wait, and hope, and listen. “Slevin?” he said. “Ezra Slevin?”

“Uh.” I was caught off guard. “Yeah?”

His eyes became distant. A pair of orbs drifting off into outer space.

“That little boy,” he said. “You’re pretending to be that little boy.”

“Little boy?” I was only slightly offended. “What are you talking about? What little boy?”

But Roscoe didn’t answer. Instead, he started shaking his head. His eyes became glassy, his face shattered.

“This is cruel,” he said. “I don’t think you even realize how cruel you’re being.”

“What little boy?” I repeated.

Roscoe stood up from the table. Veered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, rummaged through the contents.

Closed it with a six-pack of Michelob AmberBock in hand.

Well, five-pack technically. It was one bottle short, thanks to marinating the Berner platte. And then he just stood there—probably for the longest couple seconds of either of our lives.

When he eventually moved, it was with finality. Straight line to the trash can, stepped on the pedal that pops the lid, and dropped the beer in.

He veered for the front door.

“Whoa, where are you going?” I said.

“I’M GOING FOR A WALK,” said Roscoe loudly.

As he stormed out the front door, I caught the faintest glint of it—just before the door slammed behind him.

Tears.

TWENTY-TWO

THIS WAS MORE THAN just digging a hole so deep, I couldn’t get out. I had dug a hole so deep, I had successfully tunneled through the center of the planet and popped out the other side—only to wind up at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, crushed under roughly four hundred atmospheres of raw barometric pressure (5,878 pound-force per square inch). Metaphorically speaking.

There was no tunneling my way out of this one.

I needed to tell Wynonna the truth.