Page 87 of Heart Sick

“Is that him?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

Dutch stares out the windshield, tapping the edge of the photograph against the steering wheel. His silence scares me.

“Is everything okay? Did she know him?”

Dutch nods slowly, his jaw clenched.

Before I can hound him for answers, he offers me the photograph which is turned over. I accept it with shaky fingers. This needs to be quick, like a Band-Aid. But I’m afraid.

Dutch won’t look at me which just heightens my anxiety.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the photograph over and who I see has tears streaming down my cheeks.

I don’t recognize him, but my heart does. He has kind eyes and a beautiful smile. But behind that smile, I sense sadness, like masking a secret which has the ability to change the world.

“This is Jack?”

There’s a pregnant pause before Dutch replies. “Yes.”

“Jack,” I whisper, fresh tears falling. “You were loved.”

I don’t know why I said that, but I feel it’s the truth. I run my fingertips over the photograph and am once again blanketed in sadness. I don’t speak when Dutch starts the car and drives away. I can’t let go of the picture, and I know without a doubt, I knew Jack.

I just don’t remember how.

“Who was that lady?”

Dutch keeps his eyes on the road, but the hard set of his jaw reveals his inner turmoil. “His mom.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. His silence leaves me anxious.

We drive for what feels like hours because the uncomfortable tension between us just continues to grow.

“Did you find anything out that will help?” I finally ask, breaking the silence.

Dutch nods but doesn’t share what.

I give him the space he needs and we drive in silence until Dutch takes a turn down a dirt road. I have no idea where we’re going. There’s a lookout point ahead. Dutch pulls over and parks the car. He gets out but doesn’t ask if I want to come.

I wonder what Jack’s mom said.

I watch him through the windshield as he walks to the cliff edge and peers into the distance. Why does he carry such sadness?

Opening the door, I walk toward him cautiously, making sure not to crowd him as I come to a stop beside him. “Talk to me. Please.”

His hands are dug deep into his pockets and he looks to carry the world upon his shoulders. “She didn’t tell me her name, but she told me what I already know—Jack was a good driver. There’s no way it was an accident.”

Is this why Dutch is quiet? Does this confirm the voices he hears are real?

“She said Jack was messed up on drugs, and to support his habit, he was dealing. She tried to help him, but he was too far gone. She knew he needed help. But he wouldn’t let her. He said he was fine and dealing with it. She believes someone he knew ran him off the road that night.”

“But why?”

Dutch won’t look at me. “She doesn’t know, but assumes it’s got something to do with the life he lived.”

“Did you tell her he is your donor?”

He nods. “I told her everything, thinking she’d throw me off her porch and call the cops. But she didn’t. Instead, she said it didn’t surprise her because Jack was as stubborn in life as he is in death. She asked if I would help her find out who killed him.”

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