KILLIAN.
"She's not coming back, is she?"
Leo stood in the doorway of my study on the second day, small and still in his pajamas. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement from a five-year-old who had already learned that adults sometimes lied to make things hurt less.
I hadn’t slept. The bond in my chest felt like a lamp running out of oil, the flame flickering weaker with every passing hour. Claude’s latest trace had hit a dead end. Three search teams had come back empty-handed. Candice had vanished completely.
I looked at my son standing there, blue eyes steady and far too knowing for his age.
"Come here, Leo," I said quietly, my voice rough from disuse.
He walked over without hesitation and climbed into the chair across from my desk. He didn’t cry. He didn’t ask a hundred question
