Page 116

“Crossing a border to a new life in another country requires planning, organization, intent,” I argue, as desperate not to believe it as I am not to believe my sister’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere. "It needs documents. Money.”

Ashby studies me as though reading my thoughts. “Someone could have helped her.”

Yes, I know.

“I think…” I stop, pressing fingers against my forehead, trying to still the chaos inside so I can think straight. “I think Maggie was scared of something, or someone, before she disappeared. More scared than anyone realized.”

Silence settles heavily around the table.

Then I reach into my coat pocket and unfold the note again. The paper is getting softer at the creases from how often I’ve handled it.

Rain city.

Don’t follow the first trail…

Torin leans closer first. “Rain city could still mean Vancouver.”

Ashby nods. “A lot of people refer to the Pacific Northwest that way generally.”

I stare at the words until they blur slightly.

“She left this hidden inside Ben’s favorite book,” I murmur. “Why?”

Torin studies the note before speaking. “Ben was the person she trusted most.”

My chest twists painfully.

It must show on my face because Ashby immediately asks, “What are you thinking, Laurel?”

I stare back down at the note. “I think Maggie wanted someone to find this eventually.” My fingers tighten around the paper. “But maybe not Tom.”

Briggs’s expression darkens instantly. “You think she was hiding from him?”

“I think…” I swallow hard, getting out the words an effort. “I think she might have been trying to leave him.”

I hate how quickly my brain starts rearranging old phone conversations between us over the years, Maggie sounding distracted, distant, cancelling visits last minute, Maggie insisting everything was fine with a brightness that suddenly feels rehearsed.

Torin’s voice stops my rushing thoughts. “Did you ever see him angry?”

The image flashes instantly—Tom shouting at me in his kitchen earlier today. The way I flinched. The way he noticed it and stopped. My stomach turns over.

“Yes,” I admit.

Briggs mutters something under his breath that sounds deeply antagonistic about Tom White’s continued survival.

Ashby folds his hands together on the table. “Then we proceed carefully.”

We.

The word lands strangely.

Because somewhere between pizza, panic, grief, sex, missing persons investigations, and emotional collapse, these men have started speaking like Maggie is theirs to protect too.

I can’t resist the warm wash of relief that flows through me then, and I surrender to it with embarrassing speed.

My phone buzzes suddenly against the table, and I almost jump out of my skin.

The screen lights up, telling me it’s a quarter off three.