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The knock comes again, so I exhale and grab my phone out of habit before heading to peer through the peephole.

Not a large, intimidating wall of a man this time.

Worse, it's Ashby Knox.

He stands on the porch like he belongs there. Like porches were invented for men like him to stand on. Composed, patient, hands in the pockets of a dark coat that probably costs more than my expensive car rental.

His posture is relaxed, but there’s something coiled under it. Focus. Intention.

I open the door without the chain this time. Whether that counts as progress or regression remains debatable.

“Yes?”

His gaze lifts to mine, assessing, but not invasive. “I was hoping you’d still be awake.”

“I have a five-year-old to care for and a missing sister,” I say. “Sleep is more of a suggestion at this point in my life.”

His expression softens, and relief immediately follows through me when I realize it isn't pity.

“May I come in?”

I hesitate, which is ridiculous, considering I’m clearly developing a habit of letting strange men near me based solely on their connection to my dead brother.

Excellent judgment, Laurel. Truly.

But this is Ashby. He’s calm and controlled. The kind of man who thinks before he speaks and looks like he plans before he moves.

The kind of man who doesn’t feel like a risk.

That, I realize, is its own kind of danger.

I step aside anyway. “Lucy’s asleep.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

“I mean it,” I warn. “If you wake her⁠—”

“I won’t.”

He steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He removes his coat, draping it neatly over the back of the chair like he’s done it a hundred times in a hundred different houses and no one has ever challenged him.

We go through to the lounge. I don’t offer tea this time. “What did you find?” I ask, because small talk feels offensive under the circumstances.

Ashby doesn’t sit immediately. He studies the room briefly, the way Briggs did, but differently. His look seems less about memory, more about context, placement. The shape of things.

Then he sits on the couch.

I sit across from him like I did with Briggs. But this is a different man, with an entirely different energy.

“Tom’s finances don’t add up,” he says bluntly.

“Explain.”

“He doesn’t hold much in his own name. No property. Limited visible income. But there are short term loans, small debts that disappear too quickly. Someone is either helping him or he’s moving money in ways that don’t show up cleanly.”

My stomach tightens. “Helping him how?”

“Hard to say yet. It could be benign.” He pauses. “It could not be.”