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“He has more debt than he should, based on visible income. Not catastrophic, but messy. A couple of short-term loans. A lien settled too quickly to make sense.”

“Who from?”

“Still checking.”

“Check faster.”

“I do love it when you confuse me with a search engine.”

I smile to myself. “You act like one.”

“That doesn’t make sense either.”

“It does to me.”

He sighs, and my smile widens, knowing I’ve annoyed him. “I’ll speak to you later, Briggs.”

“Wait.”

He waits.

I look at Laurel’s name card on the board.

Laurel Sterling.

“You’ve spoken to Laurel?” I ask, careful not to betray my intense curiosity about the woman.

“Yes.”

“What’s she like?”

Ashby is silent a beat too long before he finally says, “She’s guarded.”

Disappointing. “That it?”

“She’s intelligent. Clearly exhausted. Angry, though she’s trying not to be. More frightened than she wants anyone to notice.”

My hand closes more tightly around the phone. “And?”

“And she doesn’t trust easily.”

“Good.”

Ashby makes a small sound. “Good?”

“It’s a sensible strategy. People are useless until proven otherwise.”

“That worldview says so much about you.”

I stare at the board again. “I need to talk to her.”

“She’s staying at the house,” Ashby says, a warning edge to his voice. I know where he means without asking. The memory of Ben’s house sits permanently in my head like a bruise.

Old family place. Narrow porch. Cedar siding gone silver with age. Maples in the yard. Too many windows. Ben used to complain about the windows.

Said every room felt watched.

He lived there after his parents left it to rot, fixed what he could, ignored what hurt too much to touch. He let us crash there sometimes when the club was too loud or the world was too intense.