43

Traffic’s light, and I know I have more than enough time to swing by the courthouse before West shows up at the park. On the way there, I pass Cannon’s office. The lot’s nearly empty, and his story starts to add up. They’re in court today.

But, when I pull onto the street in front of the courthouse, I start searching for Cannon’s car. He’s not parked along the street at a meter and not in either of the two lots; the only place left is the parking garage a block over.

It takes me a minute to get through two sets of traffic lights, and when I do, I take a ticket from the attendant and start circling around the levels. Every fifth car seems to be a black Mercedes, so I move at a snail’s pace, all while trying to blend in.

When I get to the rooftop and haven’t spotted the car, I loop back through and try again, assuming I missed it. But my gut tells me I haven’t. Cannon has a sticker on the back windshield—an autism awareness lightbulb one of my students slapped on at the fundraising walk