Malcolm Bright

Raylan had thought about what Malcolm had told him in Arlo's kitchen that month or two ago, perhaps little more often than he should have, and his eyebrows crept back down into a carefully constructed look as Malcolm clenched his fist again.

"There's nothing stopping you from not answering." He paused, just as carefully choosing his tone. "Why do you?"

He was no profiler, but he had a sense it came back to that core trauma. Malcolm couldn't let his father go, because he'd loved him. Loves him. Not Raylan's place to say, but he still had to ask.