Hank looked up.
“No.”
Sarah said quietly, “You don’t get to say that by yourself anymore.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
“We’re past that,” she said.
Hank rubbed both hands over his face.
“I am not taking a dead man’s last safety net from his son.”
Toby blurted, “Then what are you taking from us instead?”
That landed.
Because there was no good answer.
No answer that didn’t sound like the truth.
Sleep.
Trust.
Safety.
The easy version of him.
Hank rose.
He walked to the office door.
He opened it.
Inside, the desk was buried in papers.
Overdue notices.
Receipts.
Handwritten accounts.
Photographs clipped to the corkboard.
A toddler in a winter coat beside a van.
An elderly couple with a released sedan.
A young woman holding car keys and crying.
Not souvenirs.
Evidence.
Sarah stepped in behind him.
Her hand went to her mouth.
Toby followed.
On the desk lay a blue notebook.
Every page filled with names and amounts.
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