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But the longer I think about Tom White shouting drunk outside Lucy’s school, the harder it gets to care about handling this the right way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Laurel

Rain drums against the windshield as Briggs drives us back to Redwood Run, and I watch the trees blur past my window, while my mind keeps circling the same questions without getting any closer to an answer.

I used to believe uncertainty could be managed if I planned well enough, so I built spreadsheets, packed backup plans inside other backup plans, kept emergency savings untouched, and booked return flights before I even left home because preparation always felt like the closest thing to control.

It turns out none of that means much when your sister disappears and every answer opens the door to three more questions.

Briggs rests one hand on the wheel while I keep staring out the passenger window, hoping the scenery will distract me from the conversation we just had. But Sophie and Mick have settled into my head more deeply than the visit to the sheriff's office did.

They never tried to convince me Tom was innocent.

That would've been easier to understand because protective parents have a script, and I'd have known exactly where to file every excuse they offered on his behalf before walking away.

Instead, they carried the strain between them like they'd been living with it for a long time. They measured every sentence, glanced at each other before answering, and whenever Maggie's name came up, Sophie couldn't hide the change in her expression.

“You’re doing the forehead thing again,” Briggs says suddenly.

I blink. “What forehead thing?”

“The emotional spreadsheet wrinkle.”

“That isn’t a real expression.”

“It absolutely is. Ashby clocked it three weeks ago.”

“Please never say ‘clocked it’ again. You sound like a youth pastor.”

That earns me a laugh.

Briggs's laugh has become a problem I'd rather not examine too closely. It catches people off guard because his face looks built for intimidation instead of amusement. Then suddenly, he smiles and the whole thing rearranges him into somebody dangerously easy to trust.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“I had half a granola bar before we left.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

I sigh. “Emotionally or physically?”

“See, now you’re stealing my jokes.”

“That’s what happens when people spend too much time together. Their personalities start sharing bacteria.”

He smirks at me. “Pretty sure that’s not scientifically accurate.”

“You don’t know my immune system.”

Rainwater streaks sideways across the windshield while the truck climbs the familiar curve toward town.

A month ago Redwood Run felt temporary.

Now I know where the roads flood first after storms. I know which coffee shop pastries Ellie hides for regulars before the breakfast rush starts. I know the exact point on River Road where Briggs always reaches automatically for the volume knob because the truck speakers rattle over potholes.

What’s worse?