The Rusted Axle didn’t feel like the place that had given me a second chance anymore because yellow crime scene tape stretched across the parking lot, flashing police lights reflected off the fuel pumps and strangers walked through the building wearing gloves while treating my memories like evidence.
I stood beside Knox near the entrance without saying a word and the familiar smell of coffee and diesel had been replaced by disinfectant and gunpowder.
Nothing about the truck stop felt like home anymore. The sheriff's deputies moved quietly around the dining area while photographers documented every corner.
One detective glanced toward me before lowering his eyes. Nobody tried stopping me when I walked inside because they all knew who I was.
The owner's body had already been removed and
