“Yes,” I say immediately. “This is beautiful. This is safe. But it’s not real. It’s hiding.”
“It’s protecting.”
“Same thing.”
Sienna’s quiet for a moment, watching the kids play. Then: “You’re going out of your mind, aren’t you?”
“Completely.” I take a long drink of tea. “I know they’re handling things. I know they’re professionals. I know they can take care of themselves. But?—”
“But you want to be there,” Sienna finishes. “You want to be hunting instead of hiding.”
“I want to know they’re okay. I want updates more than once every two days. I want—” I stop, frustrated. “I want to trust that they’ll keep me informed, but the silence is making me crazy.”
“Have you called them?”
“Three times. Jace answered once, said they were fine, they were making progress, and he’d call when he had real news. Cal answered once, said basically the same thing. Silas hasn’t answered at all.” I set down my tea with more force than necessary. “I feel like I’m being managed. Like they decided I can’t handle the truth so they’re just giving me sanitized updates to keep me calm.”
“Or,” Sienna suggests gently, “they’re trying to let you focus on the boys without worrying about every detail of the operation.”
“I don’t need to be protected from information.”
“I know. But they’re men. They think protection means shielding you from stress.” She smiles. “Charles does the same thing. Drives me insane.”
“How do you handle it?”
“I call him on his bullshit. Tell him I’d rather know the truth and be stressed than be kept in the dark and imagine worst-case scenarios.” She looks at me. “Have you told them that?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then maybe start there. When you see them again—when this is over—tell them you need real updates. Real information. Not sanitized versions designed to keep you calm.”
“Girls!” Maria’s voice calls from the terrace. “Lunch is ready!”
“Coming!” Sienna calls back. Then, quieter, to me: “Your mom has been trying to talk to you for three days, you know.”
My stomach drops. “I know.”
“She knows something’s going on. Something beyond just the attack.” Sienna stands, offering me her hand. “Maybe it’s time to tell her?”
“Maybe,” I say, but I don’t move.
Sienna pulls me up anyway. “Come on. Evelyn made her famous chicken salad. And Maria’s been baking all morning. If we don’t get up there soon, the kids will eat everything.”
Lunch is on the terrace—a long table under a pergola draped with flowering vines, the ocean visible beyond the gardens. The kids are already seated, fresh from the beach, their hair still damp, talking over each other about hermit crabs and tide pools and the horse Maria promised they could ride this afternoon.
Mom has indeed made her chicken salad—the one with grapes and pecans that I remember from childhood. Maria’s contributed fresh bread, still warm from the oven, and some kind of fruit tart that looks incredible.
It’s idyllic. Perfect. Everything I wanted for my children when I was hiding in California.
So why do I feel like I’m suffocating?
“Parker, sweetheart, you’re not eating,” Mom observes from across the table.
“Just not very hungry.” I force myself to take a bite of chicken salad. It’s delicious, but it might as well be cardboard.
“You’ve barely eaten in days,” my mother presses. “I know you’re worried, but you need to keep your strength up.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
