I found it at 1 a.m., wiping down the bar at The Last Call. An unknown number had been texting me for an hour. My phone didn't recognise it. My brother's old contacts did.

Theo has been gone two winters. I never changed anything he put in my phone. I never thought I'd need to.

The texts said: “You close at 2 right?” Then: “I'm outside.” Then: “I'm not leaving until you do.”

The man outside was Declan Shaw. Northbridge's captain. Six-three, hood up, standing in the snow like he'd been told to wait there his whole life.

“How do you have my number,” I said. Not a question. He didn't blink. “Theo gave it to me. The night before.”

He knew my shift. He knew my name. He knew I still drink my coffee the way Theo made it for me — because Theo told him. Every week. For two years.

“He made me promise something,” Declan said. “And he told you not to answer if I ever called. Both of those things are going to be a problem.”

Then he held up Theo's phone. The one we never found.