Page 92

“That’s not comforting.”

“I wasn’t aiming for comfort.”

“No, you don’t seem like a man who would do that recreationally.”

His mouth shifts slightly. “I can, when appropriate.”

“Is this not appropriate?”

“No,” he says simply.

I lean back in the chair, pressing my fingers to my temple. “Briggs said Maggie was seen two Fridays ago. Possibly with Tom.”

“Yes.”

“And now this.” I gesture vaguely toward the coffee table where the note still sits, like it’s waiting to be understood.

Ashby’s gaze follows. He reaches for it carefully, as though fearing it might disintegrate under the wrong pressure.

He reads it silently.

I watch his face and see a flicker there. Recognition. Pattern.

“You see something?”

“I see possibilities,” he replies.

“I don’t want possibilities. I want answers.”

“I know.” His eyes lift to mine. “But we work with what we have.”

I hate that I know he’s right.

I exhale, the kind that feels like it’s been building for hours. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The admission slips out before I can stop it.

I look away immediately, wishing I could catch it and shove it back into my mouth where it belongs.

Too late.

But Ashby doesn’t pounce on it, doesn’t fill the space with reassurance or platitudes. He just says, “No one expects you to.”

“That’s not true,” I snap. “Lucy does. Tom does. Apparently, most of the population of this town does.”

“I don’t.”

I glance at him. “No?”

“No.” His voice is certain. “I expect you to keep showing up. That’s it.”

“I’m failing at that too,” I say.

“You’re not.”

“You didn’t see breakfast.” I sigh heavily. “You didn’t see the part where she asked if her mother forgot her. Again.”

His jaw tightens.