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Words prepare the ground.

A man who says she ‘needs space’ before she disappears is either observant or planting a story.

At 1:42 I see Tom again.

He’s parked behind a pharmacy, truck angled near the dumpster, on his phone. This time, I’m close enough to see his face.

Not grief.

Anger.

He speaks in short bursts, jaw tight, free hand slamming once against the steering wheel. Then he stops, listens, and goes very still.

I can’t hear him.

That irritates me.

He ends the call and immediately begins typing into the phone. Fast. Aggressive. Then he opens a browser. I see movement through the windshield, too far away for specifics.

Searches, maybe. Messages. Maps.

He looks up suddenly.

I’m parked near the pharmacy entrance, holding a receipt I don’t need and standing beside a rack of discounted windscreen fluid. Not ideal, but workable.

His eyes pass over me.

He drives away at 1:51.

I don’t follow. Patterns require restraint. Follow too often and you become part of them.

Instead, I go to the police station.

The front desk officer is young, tired, and immediately uninterested.

“I’m checking whether a missing person’s report has been filed for Maggie Sterling,” I say.

“Relation?”

“Family friend.”

The officer finally looks up properly at that. “We can’t release investigative details.”

I rest one hand against the counter. “I’m not asking for details.”

“Family can call.”

“Her sister is caring for her five- year old and trying to manage a crisis with incomplete information.”

His expression shifts. “Name again?”

“Maggie Sterling. Adult female. Lives on Cedar Hart Lane.”

He types. “I can’t release information.”

Which isn’t no.

It’s also not yes.