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The one where Maggie’s emotional, difficult, impulsive. The unreliable woman making irrational choices while the worried boyfriend tries his best.

I’ve seen men build that exact story before.

Tom knows exactly how to sound reasonable in public.

Beside me Laurel leans forward slowly. “Did Tom mention the restraining incidents?”

Collins frowns slightly. “There isn’t a restraining order.”

“Not yet,” she snaps. “But he grabbed me at Lucy’s school. He showed up drunk.”

“We documented the disturbance.”

Disturbance. Tom screaming outside an elementary school was weather instead of warning signs?

Laurel’s breathing changes beside me.

I know she’s about three seconds from saying something that’ll get us escorted out. So I speak first. “What exactly are you doing to look for Maggie?”

Collins turns toward me. “We’ve circulated her information statewide.”

“That it?”

“We’ve followed procedure.”

I lean back slightly in the chair before I speak out of turn.

Laurel doesn’t bother trying. “She’s terrified. I know my sister. Something is wrong.”

Collins softens slightly then, probably because even exhausted systems occasionally remember humanity exists underneath procedure. “I understand you’re worried. But right now we don’t have evidence of foul play.”

Laurel sets her coffee down carefully enough that I know she’s furious.

“Thank you for your time,” she says politely.

Laurel only gets formal when she wants emotional distance jagged enough to cut somebody.

Outside the station rain drizzles steadily across the sidewalk as she walks several feet ahead of me toward the truck.

I catch up near the passenger door. “Laurel.”

She unlocks the truck aggressively. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“That seems optimistic.”

“They think she’s just being dramatic.” Her voice cracks around the edges. “They think I’m overreacting because Tom talks calmly and Maggie ran before and nobody understands⁠—”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” She turns toward me finally, eyes bright with frustration. “Every single person keeps acting like I’m hysterical for being scared.”

I doubt anyone’s ever accused Laurel Sterling of hysteria before.

I’m sure most people assume she’s capable of surviving nuclear winter through eye contact alone, which means this fear has to be written all over her for strangers to notice it at all.

I step closer. “Hey.”

She looks away immediately. Rain catches in her dark hair while traffic moves slowly past the station behind us.