Ford didn't finish his words. He didn't need to say them. They both knew who had left it behind.
Dylan shifted slightly and reached inside the car, picking up the scarf.
Against his fingers, it still felt faintly warm … as though it still carried the lingering trace of the person who had worn it.
His thumb brushed over the smooth surface, slowly rubbing the silk between his fingertips, testing its softness —its delicate weight.
Then he stilled.
As if suddenly aware of what he was doing.
His fingers tightened just slightly —not enough to wrinkle the fabric, but enough to betray the moment of realization.
His gaze lowered to it, quiet … unreadable.
Ford stepped out of the car and approached him, stopping at a respectable distance. His eyes moved to the brown silk fabric. A known understanding flickered in his eyes, but he didn't make it obvious.
