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The words are quiet but cut me anyway.

I stand there with one hand on the suitcase handle, suddenly aware of every inch of space between us.

“I know,” I say.

It's not enough but it's the only thing I have.

Lucy climbs onto the bed without taking off her shoes, curls onto her side, and turns her face toward the wall.

I look at the shoes. Mud on the quilt. I look at her shoulders. Small, stiff, and trying not to shake.

I don’t comment on the muddy shoes, which I choose to count as personal growth.

I leave the suitcase where it is and step out, pulling the door mostly closed.

In the hallway, I press both hands to my face.

Can I do this?

I have to. I have no choice.

My phone buzzes.

For one wild, stupid second, I think of Torin. The plane. His hands and mouth. The way he looked at me like he saw past the architecture.

I hate that I remember his name so easily.

I hate that somewhere in the madness of my sister missing and my niece crying into a pillow, there's a part of me still carrying the warmth of a stranger’s hand.

It’s neither useful nor helpful.

I check the phone and see it’s my boss, so I let it go to voicemail.

Then another buzz.

A text from Tom.

Tom White: Thank you for doing this. Lucy needs stability. Maggie will come back when she’s ready.

I stare at it.

When she’s ready.

My fingers react instantly.

Laurel: Please send the police contact information and case number.

Delivered.

No answer.

A knock sounds at the front door.

I almost laugh, because what this situation needs is more people.

I open the door to find a woman on the porch holding a covered dish. She's in her sixties, maybe older, with silver hair braided over one shoulder and rain boots patterned with sunflowers.

“Laurel Sterling,” she says like she’s confirmed a sighting of some rare creature.