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Lucy’s brow furrows, like she's trying to decide whether I'm stupid.

Sophie presses a hand to her mouth.

Mick clears his throat. “Tom appreciates this.”

Does he? How nice for Tom.

“Of course,” I say.

Because saying, Tom could parent his own child if he were not apparently too distraught to function, seems unproductive in the driveway.

“He’s in pieces,” Sophie says quickly. “He loves Maggie. Whatever people think, he loves her.”

That phrase bothers me. Whatever people think. What people? Why?

“I’m sure,” I say, storing it away.

Mick sets Lucy’s suitcase by the porch. “We’ll keep searching. Police said they’ll be in touch if they hear anything.”

“Do you know who’s handling it?” I ask. “Which officer? Case number?”

Mick blinks.

Sophie looks down.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “Tom talked to them.”

Of course he did. Of course everything funnels through Tom.

“Could you ask him to send me the information?” I ask.

Sophie nods too fast. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure he will.”

I doubt that.

Lucy hasn’t moved.

I crouch, though it feels unnatural, like I’m performing child interaction based on a training module I missed.

“I have a room set up for you,” I tell her. “It used to be your mom’s.”

Wrong. I know it’s wrong the second her face changes. A tiny retreat inward, like a door closing.

“Okay,” she whispers.

I stand, mentally resisting the urge to write don't mention emotionally loaded bedrooms to traumatized child on my arm.

Sophie hugs Lucy.

Lucy allows it but doesn’t return it.

Mick pats her head and looks immediately guilty for not doing more.

Then they leave.

It happens too quickly.

One minute there are adults and explanations and bags. The next, the sedan is backing out of the driveway, and I'm standing on the porch with a silent five year old, a fox backpack, a suitcase, Bun, and absolutely no qualifications.