The wine glass rolled off the desk edge and shattered beside her head. Red pooled against the wood and crept toward the baseboard.
Maggie lay on her side and stared at the splintered glass scattered across the floor, each piece catching the glow of the desk lamp. She could feel warmth soaking through her blouse. Her breathing was wrong, too shallow, too fast, and there was a sound in her throat she had never made before.
The night air poured through the ruined window and stirred the papers on her desk. A draft lifted the corner of an old photograph pinned to her corkboard, a staff photo from 2014, and let it fall again.
No one came. No one called out. The nearest neighbor was a quarter mile through the trees and the shot had been quiet, a single muted crack that the crickets swallowed before it reached the road.
Chester crouched beneath the kitchen table in the next room, eyes wide, ears pinned, watching the doorway.
The desk lamp buzzed.
The bullfrog called from the pond.
On Maggie Coleman's computer screen, the cursor blinked at the end of the sentence.
1
Noah noticed the business card before he poured the coffee.
It was sitting on the kitchen counter beside Ethan's phone, propped against a glass of water that hadn't been touched. White cardstock. Black lettering. A name embossed in a font that cost more than most people's monthly rent.
Luther Ashford.
God, he hated that man.
Noah stared at it. The last time he had seen the card, it was crumpled in the back pocket of Ethan's jeans, pulled out during laundry. That was months ago. Now it was here, smoothed flat, placed upright where it could be seen.
Had he called the number?
He poured the coffee and said nothing.
Down the hall, Mia's bedroom door was open. Boxes lined the wall inside, taped and labeled in her tidy handwriting. Books. Desk Lamp. Winter Stuff. She had been organizing for days, sorting her life into categories that would fit in the back of her car. SUNY Plattsburgh was the next step. She talked about it the way people talk about a country they have only read about,equal parts excitement and fear, though she would never admit to the fear. The path would be four years of criminal justice, then the FBI application. That was her plan. She had mapped it out the way she mapped out everything, with timelines and backup options and a confidence that made Noah wonder where she got it from, because it certainly wasn't him.
Ethan's door was closed. It had been closed for days.
Noah cracked eggs into a skillet and listened to the house. The fridge hummed. A mourning dove called from somewhere near the lake. It was quiet at this hour, nothing but trees and water and Ed Baxter's truck in the driveway next door.
Mia appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair pulled back, wearing a SUNY Plattsburgh sweatshirt she had ordered before she was even accepted. "Morning."
"Morning, hon. Eggs?"
"Please." She sat at the counter and picked up a glass of orange juice, drank half, and set it back. “Do you know that he didn't eat last night?”
"I know."
"Have you talked to him?"
"I've tried."
Mia looked toward the hallway. "He's not sleeping. I can hear him moving around at two, three in the morning. His lights were on."
Noah slid the eggs onto a plate and set it in front of her. He leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. "He's grieving. The loss of Fiona hit him hard. It's going to take time."
"It's been months, Dad."
"Grief doesn't run on a schedule."
She ate in silence for a minute. Then said, "Grandpa called him last week."
