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“Maggie remains under protection.”

“Does she know we think there's more going on?” Viktor asks.

“No.”

Luka’s voice comes through the screen. “She knows enough to be annoyed with me already.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “What did she do?”

“She told one of the men he was standing too close to the cats and making them judgmental.”

Sasha glances down at her tablet to hide her reaction. Viktor looks at the floor.

In my mind, I see Maggie surrounded by dogs, reporters, frightened volunteers, and my men, still finding the energy to scold someone on behalf of cats. The image almost pulls me out of the conversation.

“Keep her there until she’s done,” I tell Luka. “No unnecessary force or arguments unless her safety requires one.”

“That distinction may be difficult with her.”

“I’m aware.”

Luka says nothing else.

I end the meeting five minutes later after assigning names, files, and routes. The room empties around me, but Sasha stays behind.

“Boss,” she says carefully. “Are we treating Clara as a victim or a risk?”

It’s the correct question, but I resent it anyway.

Viktor goes very still near the door.

I hold Sasha’s eyes until most people would have looked away. She doesn’t. It’s another reason why she’s lasted this long.

“We’re treating Clara as the key.”

Sasha nods. “Understood.”

By early afternoon, I leave Black Tide with more questions than answers and the unpleasant certainty that the pieces still don't fit. Luka remains with Maggie. Viktor sits up front with his sling and silence. The city moves around us, but my mind stays with Roman’s words.

There’s no Clara Bennett before Savannah.

The estate gates open before we reach them. The house waits beyond the long drive, guarded, still, and too quiet without Ivy’s voice or Maggie’s Southern irritation moving through the rooms. Mrs. Bennett meets me near the foyer, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Ivy is in the sunroom,” she says. “She and Daisy are supervising Winston’s nap.”

“Supervising?”

“Apparently he cannot be trusted to sleep honestly.”

I give a single nod and head for the staircase.

Upstairs, I stop outside the closed door of the sitting room at the end of the hall. Clara’s box isn’t hidden. That would be easier. It sits in a cedar chest inside the closet where I put it four years ago, after months of avoiding it and one night of deciding grief was a thing that could be contained if I gave it somewhere to live.

I open the closet. The cedar chest waits beneath folded blankets no one uses. I move them aside, lift the lid, and stare at the dark wooden box.

My hand remains on the lid while I stare at it. Roman told me to search it like evidence. He was right to say it. He was also right to know it would be difficult.

I carry the box to my office and set it on the desk. The brass latch opens with a muted click. Inside, Clara’s life sits folded into layers. Photographs first. Ivy as a newborn, red-faced and furious beneath a hospital blanket. Clara laughing with her head turned away from the camera. A picture of the three of us, taken by Irina’s predecessor, Ivy caught mid-yawn between us while Clara leaned into my side. I remember that day. I remember thinking she looked tired and happy and entirely mine.