The wind out here tastes like dust and diesel.
You stand in the gravel lot of the Last Stop Diner at 6:12 a.m., holding a key ring that belonged to a dead man. The neon sign buzzes LAST STO — the P burned out years ago.
Inside, the chrome counter is sticky. The jukebox hums. Somebody has left a coffee mug by the register with a note under it, written in shaky capitals:
THE LEDGER IS NOT FOR YOU. BURN IT. — W.
Walt's handwriting. Dated the day before he died.
You hear tires on gravel. A black tow truck pulls in, KESSLER TOWING stenciled on the door. A big man in a denim jacket climbs out, stretches like he owns the morning, and walks in without knocking.
"You must be the nephew." Boone Kessler smiles with half his mouth. "Condolences. Walt owed my uncle sixty thousand. Thirty days." He taps the counter twice. "We'll be by."
He leaves the door open behind him.
Your pocket feels heavy. The ledger is still in your jacket.