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“So was Maggie,” Laurel says.

Mick exhales heavily through his nose. “Our son loved her.”

Loved.

Past tense slips tell on people sometimes before they realize it.

I watch Laurel notice too.

“She was scared of him,” Laurel says.

Sophie’s eyes flick upward instantly.

Mick notices his wife reaction and his whole jaw tightens. “Nobody’s saying Tom’s perfect.”

Laurel goes very still. “Nobody?”

Sophie looks down at the table.

Rain taps steadily against the kitchen windows while a heaviness settles into the room.

“You know something, don’t you?” Laurel asks.

Mick stands abruptly. “We don’t know where Maggie is.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Laurel,” Sophie says, almost pleading now.

And suddenly, I understand the shape of this family a little better.

Tom learned silence somewhere. Learned how people look away from ugly things to keep peace standing upright another day.

Mick walks toward the sink. “He’s our son,” he says, his voice rough.

“There it is,” Laurel whispers.

Nobody speaks after that. Because what do you say once truth finally enters the room?

Sophie wipes quickly beneath one eye before standing too. “I think maybe everybody needs some time.” Her tone makes it clear the conversation’s over.

Laurel rises, disappointment rolling off her so palpably it practically changes the air pressure in the room.

Still, she keeps her calm.

“Lucy’s safe with me,” she says before heading toward the door.

Outside, the rain’s gotten heavier. It’s cold enough now to sting against skin.

Laurel climbs into the truck without speaking.

Doesn’t speak for the first couple of miles either.

I let her have the silence.

People process grief differently. Ashby organizes it into solutions. Torin turns it inward until it feels poetic enough to hurt. I start wanting names and addresses. And right now, every instinct in my body says Tom White knows more than he’s admitting.

The problem is, Ashby still believes we can solve this clean. Legally. Smart.