Eli locked the door and pulled the shades. He sat in the dark, listening to his own heartbeat.
Eli didn’t look up from the dissembled movement under his magnifier. “Hands are just hands.”
Eli looked at her for a long moment. His hands, those steady, careful hands, remained at his sides.
She placed the watch down. “Ever been to Ohio, Mr. Cross?”
“I wasn’t running from guilt,” he said. “I was running from grief. And I ended up right where I belonged.”