Lia woke to the sound of Chicago.
Seventeen floors below, the city was already moving horns, construction, the distant wail of a siren. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. The kind that meant nothing on any other morning.
This wasn't any other morning.
She reached for her phone before she was fully awake, muscle memory betraying her. The screen lit up with notifications she wasn't ready to face.
Forty-two missed calls.
Eighty-nine text messages.
Fourteen voicemails.
And at the top, a Google alert she'd set up on her own name three months ago when the first whispers of trouble started.
*Margaret Ashford Speaks Out: "My Son Deserves the Truth"*
Lia's stomach dropped.
She sat up slowly, the bedroom empty beside her. Caspian's pillow still held the indentation of his head, still smelled
