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She cried when I showed it to her. Then cried harder when I told her there was a condition. Rehab. Real rehab. Not promises. Not “I’m cutting down”. Not “I’ve got it under control this time.” Treatment. If she wants to be part of the life Gage and I are building, she has to fight for hers too. She checked in three days ago.

Things have been good. Busy but disgustingly good.

Gage worked on his Halloween footage, which meant every kitchen surface disappeared beneath black cocoa, spun sugar, fondant ghosts, chocolate gravestones, or cats wearing costumes they absolutely did not consent to.

I requested one Gothic Victorian shoot.

A day later, he surprised me with a floor-length wine-red gown with black lace, fitted sleeves, and a corset because my request for something dramatic activates the same part of his brain normally reserved for laminated pastry dough.

He particularly enjoyed removing it afterward—slowly. I told him corset strings were not a fucking puzzle box. He stated a gentleman does not rush. I threatened homicide. He told me impatience was unbecoming of a lady. Somehow, he survived.

We’ve spent evenings helping Maisie close the café, Mom calls from treatment every night, and Nana Noreene planned our upcoming November farm visit; it will involve pie lessons because when I chose her apple crisp, it entered Cannon family mythology.

It feels like a beginning. Except for the folder on my laptop. That isn’t a beginning. That’s seventeen years clawing its way back from the dead. By Halloween night, I know enough.

I close my laptop and smooth the skirts of my Halloween dress: black over crimson skull lace, twin leather buckles at the waist, the hem dipping long in back like a small cape. Not technically a costume, but suitably dramatic for Gage’s annual trick-or-treat tradition.

Gage is in the kitchen putting tiny bat wings on Tartlet when I walk in. “Absolutely not.”

His focus doesn’t waver. “She volunteered.”

Tartlet stares at me with dead eyes, like she’s planning to file a report with HR. “Yeah, she’s thrilled.”

“She’s adjusting,” he insists.

“She’s an orange cat. And she’s planning your murder.”

“You’d have that honor first, Princess.”

My smile doesn’t quite happen. Gage notices. His hands pause against Tartlet’s harness. “What?”

I glance toward the living room. His face changes before I say anything. Not fear but recognition. He takes the ridiculous bat wings off Tartlet and sets her gently on the floor.

“I found something,” I tell him.

Every trace of Halloween disappears from him. We sit at the dining table. I turn my laptop toward him. “I need you to hear the warning first.” His attention stays on me. “This is not proof. Not yet. But it’s pretty damn close.” I pause to take a deep breath. “I have a man.”

Nothing moves. Not even the muscle beside his jaw.

I open the first file. “Martin Heller. Fifty-two. He lived twenty-six minutes from your family in 2009.” I open the next file. “He owned a dark SUV matching vehicles photographed along the probable route away from your neighborhood.”

I click again. “At eleven-oh-seven that night, his customer account was used to buy asthma medication. Forty-two minutes later, the same account bought boys’ sweatpants, a sweatshirt, socks, shoes, candy, and juice.”

Gage’s breathing changes.

“He didn’t have children. He moved six months later. And three years after Grady disappeared, Heller was arrested in another state.” I swipe on the screen.

The hoods of Gage’s eyes lower. “For what?”

“Abducting a nine-year-old boy.” His chair creaks beneath his grip. “That child survived. Heller was convicted, served time, and is currently registered as high risk.”

Silence. His gaze hasn’t moved.

“There’s one more thing.” I pull up the photograph. The Halloween picture. Kids crowd the foreground beneath porch lights. Princesses. Ninjas. A tiny dinosaur.

At the edge of the frame stands a man beside the dark SUV. Most of his face is turned away. But enough is visible. I put the current registry photograph beside it. Same man.

Gage stops breathing.