Joaquin Heartgrove had fucking died.
He had not told Minnie. Not told Sienna. Told not a soul other than Tiffer this mad plan.
His whereabouts were a mystery to all but himself. For now, he had abandoned his old car and bought another one with cash technologically stripped out of an ATM. He parked it in rural spaces no one cared about, slept in the sunless trunk. Crawled back through via the back seats.
Charged his new prepaid phone on it.
Watched the news of his death. Wept to learn the truer death of another.
There was only one contact on this phone, and that was all he needed now.
Thank you. I'm so sorry about Rhett.
Mother-in-law