“Something’s wrong,” I say.
Wyatt sees her too. His expression shifts. “She looks?—”
“Off. Something’s off.”
“Go,” Wyatt says. “I’ll make excuses if anyone asks.”
The garden is quieter here, away from the heaters and the lingering dinner conversation. I find her pressed against the wall, one hand flat on the stucco, her head bowed.
“Nina.”
She doesn’t startle. Just lifts her head, and in the dim light I can see her face. Composed, distant. That therapist mask she wears when she’s holding something too big to process.
“I need to leave,” she says. Her voice is steady. Too steady. “I’m exhausted. Can we go?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
She’s lying. I’ve interrogated enough people to know the difference between exhaustion and evasion, and this is evasion wrapped in clinical detachment.
“Nina—”
“Please.” Something cracks in the word. Just for a second. Then she smooths it over, straightens her spine, becomes Dr. Palmer again. “I don’t want to talk about it here. I just want to go home.”
I want to push. Want to know what Sadie or Marco said, what broke behind her eyes, what’s making her hold herself like she’ll shatter if she doesn’t stay perfectly still.
But I know that look. Wore it myself for years.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The goodbyes take forever. Hugs from Callie and Marcella, promises to call from Mason, Zoey’s sleepy wave from Elena’s arms. Vicente watches from near the bar as we make our way toward the door, that small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Then he sets down his drink and closes the distance, Arturo falling into step beside him.
“Christopher.” He reaches us at the entrance. “Leaving so soon?”
“Nina’s tired.” I keep my voice neutral. “It’s been a long day.”
“Of course. Recovery takes time.” His gaze slides to Nina with what looks like genuine concern. “You’re in good hands, Dr. Palmer. These two will take excellent care of you.”
“Thank you for having us,” Nina says. Perfect manners, perfect composure. “It was a lovely evening.”
“You’re family now.” Vicente’s smile widens. “That’s what Thanksgiving is for, isn’t it? Gathering the people who matter.”
The word family in his mouth makes my stomach turn.
Arturo steps forward, clasping my hand in both of his. “Safe travels. And thank you—for the conversation earlier. It’s good to have allies who understand the landscape.”
Allies. Like we’re all on the same side. Like there aren’t a thousand ways this could go wrong.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Goodnight.”
Wyatt’s hand finds the small of Nina’s back, guiding her toward the door. I follow, feeling Vicente’s gaze on me until the heavy wood closes between us.
The walk to the car is silent. The drive down the winding driveway is silent. The security checkpoint, the palm-lined road, the freeway on-ramp. All silent.
Nina sits in the back, staring out the window at the city lights. Wyatt drives, his hands steady on the wheel, but I catch him glancing sideways at me. Questions in his expression that I can’t answer. I stare out the passenger window and try not to think about what Nina might have heard.
The paranoia spirals. Maybe Vicente orchestrated it. Maybe he wanted Nina to find out this way. Not from me, not on my terms, but dropped like a grenade in the middle of a family gathering. Maximum impact. Maximum damage.
