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Sophie rolls her eyes toward the ceiling then shouts back, “That pan is older than our marriage and significantly more dependable than you, you old fool.”

Mick laughs. “That’s rude, Soph.”

Lucy giggles against my side.

Everything here feels painfully, confusingly normal.

I glance around the house again.

“Still no sign of Tom?” I ask.

Sophie frowns slightly. “Tom hasn’t been home all afternoon.”

“He hasn’t been home to see his daughter?”

Mick appears in the lounge doorway. Sophie exchanges a glance with him I can’t interpret.

“Honey, like I said,” she tells me, “he told us he had errands today. We assumed he was with the police afterward.”

I stiffen, and my body goes cold. Because suddenly, Tom disappearing all day feels very different than Tom missing quality time with his daughter.

“Did he call at all?” I ask.

Mick shakes his head. “No.”

I force myself to smile down at Lucy, who’s watching all of us now with those intensely observant eyes of hers. “Go grab your coat and get your boots on, Lucy,” I tell her with false cheer. “Time to go home.”

“Okay.” She runs to Mick. “Grandpa, will you help me?”

“Of course, honey!” He swings her into his arms and carries her away.

Sophie looks at me, her brow furrowed. “Is something wrong, Laurel?”

I think about the non-existent police report. About Tom disappearing all day. About the way everybody keeps circling the situation without saying the worst parts out loud.

“No,” I hear myself say smoothly. “Nothing’s wrong, Sophie.”

The lie comes with surprising ease.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Torin

Laurel looks beautiful but exhausted as she sits with us in the booth at the Riverbend Grill.

Lucy’s beside her, Bun wedged on her lap. She’s wielding a magenta crayon in one hand, her small tongue sticking out, fully focused on decorating the space allotted for coloring on the kid’s menu.

The perfect distraction while the grownups talk.

The waiter, Devon Price, approaches.

“Evening,” he says pleasantly, his trusty notepad in hand. “You all look like you just survived something offensively educational.”

Briggs glances up from the menu. “That your customer service voice, Devon?”

“No,” Devon says mildly. “My customer service voice has more concern and less judgment. What can I get you?”

Ashby orders coffee, although by now his bloodstream must be eighty percent caffeine. It’s what he runs on. Briggs orders a beer and a burger, the one that’s stacked high enough to require engineering permits. Laurel studies the menu blankly for too long without ordering anything.