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Then something occurs to me that makes my stomach drop. I stop moving and turn to the men. “Oh fuck. I just realized something important.”

Ashby’s attention sharpens instantly. “What?”

“He knew I wouldn’t question him too hard or doubt he made a report.” I look between them. “He knew I’d trust him to handle it because I had Lucy to look after.”

Briggs’s jaw flexes. “Son of a bitch.”

I pull my phone out immediately and call Tom.

Straight to voicemail.

“He’s not answering,” I say tightly, cutting the connection.

Briggs looks toward his bike. “We should go find him.”

And we try.

For nearly three hours.

We drive through Everwood checking every place any of us can think of that Tom might be. His house. Everwood Supply. The gas station. The diner near the highway. Nothing.

His truck is nowhere. His phone stays off.

By the time I pull back into Mick and Sophie’s driveway later that evening, my nerves feel scraped raw.

The porch light beams warm against the dark while laughter drifts faintly through the screen door.

Lucy’s laughter.

I stop breathing normally without meaning to. Because some ugly, terrified part of me spent the entire drive here imagining worst case scenarios.

I knock too fast.

Sophie opens the door immediately. “Laurel.”

“Is Lucy okay?”

She looks puzzled. “Of course she is.”

Relief hits hard enough to make me dizzy for a moment.

Lucy appears in the hallway wearing pajama pants covered in strawberries. “Aunt Laurel!”

She runs into me and flings her arms around my waist, Bun squished between us. I stroke her hair, floored by how pleased she is to see me. A lump forms in my throat, and I have to cough to push it back down.

“Hi, Lucy.”

“You’re late,” she informs me, letting me go to look up at me, her cheeks pink with excitement.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We made pancakes for dinner.”

“Ooh, lovely.”

“Grandpa Mick burned one, and Grandma Sophie called him a disgrace to breakfast foods.”

From deeper in the house, Mick shouts, “That pan is defective.”