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Ben always hated it here.

If I’m gone, I chose the water before the fire chose me.

For several seconds, I cannot breathe.

The words detach from meaning and become shapes. Black ink. Paper fibers. Maggie’s slanted letters carving their way through the silence.

I grip the note so hard it crinkles.

Briggs’s voice is gravely. “Laurel.”

I shake my head.

No. Not yet. I need one more second before the world becomes worse.

But the world doesn't care what I need.

“She planned this,” I whisper.

“Maybe.”

I look up at him. “Maybe?”

“Could’ve been fear. Could’ve been a warning. Could’ve written it a while ago.”

“Then why is it inside Ben’s favorite book?”

His jaw tightens. “Because she thought someone would find it there.”

“Ben is dead.”

“Yes.”

The bluntness should hurt, but it steadies me.

Ben is dead. Maggie knew that but put the note in his favorite book anyway. Or she hid it there before he died.

No. The mention of Lucy means after. Lucy is five. Ben died years ago, but after Lucy was born. Timeline. Anchor. Think.

My mind gropes for structure because panic is useless unless managed.

“When would she have been here?” I ask. “Did she come a lot after she moved?”

“You’d know better than me.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” My voice cracks. I hate it. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know when my sister was here. I don’t know what she was scared of. I don’t know what song Lucy knows. I don’t know what thing Ben hated most because, apparently, everyone knew my brother better than I did.”

The last words rip out before I can stop them.

He cries better than he tells the truth.

My skin crawls.

Tom crying in the doorway. Tom exhausted. Tom saying Maggie does this. Tom telling me to focus on Lucy. Tom looking like the grieving boyfriend while no report, as far as I know, has been confirmed by anyone but him.

I press a hand to my mouth.

Briggs steps closer, then stops himself. “Sit down.”