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Laurel coughs into her mug.

I narrow my eyes at her. "You're enjoying this."

"A little," she admits.

Lucy points her spoon at me. "You should be more nice."

“I’ll ignore the grammar transgression,” I say, looking down at the offensively mismatched socks again, then at Maggie.

“Apparently, I've reached a stage in my life where I'm being lectured by a five-year-old about the emotional welfare of footwear.”

She chuckles into her mug. No help there.

"I see," I say, turning back to Lucy. "Do you think the dinosaur could survive school if we found it a friend that actually matches? Maybe even a sibling?"

After I explain what a sibling is, to snorts of stifled laughter from Laurel and Maggie, Lucy considers my proposal with adorable childish seriousness.

Before she can answer, Maggie laughs. "Oh, come on Lucy, I think you can find a matching pair.”

Her mother’s words seem to ignite enthusiasm for the quest in Lucy. She slides down from her chair, declaring, “I can do it before Ashby and Aunt Laurel take me to school!”

As she races off, Maggie shakes her head and looks at me with a kind of wonder I’m not used to and feels inconveniently good. “My goodness, Ashby, she loves you a lot, doesn’t she? Thank you for looking after her so well for me.”

“Just being efficient,” I reply, suspicious of the warmth in my chest.

None of us mention our concerns about what the day could bring.

Tom knows where Lucy goes to school. The restraining order is in place and the sheriff's department is aware of the situation, but none of that changes the fact that Maggie shouldn't have to spend her morning wondering whether she might come face to face with him in the school parking lot.

So we’re all on high alert.

I know every route between the house and Lucy's school. I know which neighbors are usually home during the day. I know how long it takes deputies to respond to a call in Redwood Run.

Briggs keeps inventing security measures nobody asked for.

Torin pays attention to Laurel so closely, he notices she’s having a bad day before she does.

We’re all just hoping that we don’t need to act.

The drive into town feels surprisingly ordinary.

Laurel sits beside me while Lucy occupies the back seat and launches into a detailed presentation on why goats should work as crossing guards.

According to her, they're already qualified because they stand in roads and stare at people with authority.

"That's not a qualification," I tell her.

"It is if you're a goat."

"That isn't how employment works."

"Have you met people?" Lucy asks.

Laurel turns toward the window, laughing. "She's making a strong case."

"Please stop encouraging her."

"You say that like she needs encouragement."