I don't take her straight back to her room.
We move through the corridors toward my office instead. She notices the turn immediately— her steps hesitate for half a beat — but she doesn't question it. That tells me she's learning when questions cost more than silence.
My office door closes behind us.
Low light. Solid walls. No windows.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "Sit."
She does.
I don't sit right away. I pour some water, slide the glass toward her. She wraps her hands around it like she needs the weight.
"When did your brother disappear?" I ask.
She blinks. "Disappear?"
"The night he didn't come home," I clarify. "When it started."
"Oh." She swallows. "Three months ago. Almost four."
"Time."
"After midnight."
"Unusual for him?"
"No."
"You were home," I say.
