“Elise.”
“I said appropriate, and I mean appropriate.”
I opened the folder.
Evan Bennett.
Age thirty-eight at death.
Occupation: forensic accountant.
Cause of death: single-car accident on a rural road outside Lake Forest.
Survived by spouse, Claire Bennett, and minor children, Lily and Owen Bennett.
Previous spouse: Anna Vale Bennett. Listed as deceased in one filing, absent in another. No death certificate included.
I looked up. “What does that mean?”
“It means something is inconsistent.”
“Anna may be alive?”
“It means I don’t have proof she’s dead.”
“Find it.”
“I’m trying. Carefully.”
I turned the page.
Evan had no sister.
No aunt Rebecca.
No family friend listed.
One brother: Nathaniel Bennett.
Last known address: Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Phone disconnected.
“Why would Claire tell them he didn’t want them?”
“Maybe he didn’t,” Elise said. “Maybe he couldn’t be found. Maybe Claire didn’t try.”
I looked at the accident report summary.
Road conditions clear.
No other vehicles involved.
No signs of intoxication reported.
Investigation closed.
Something about it felt thin.
“What was Evan working on when he died?”
Elise sighed. “Ryker.”
“He was a forensic accountant.”
“That doesn’t mean every death is connected to a secret.”
“No. But it means he knew how to find them.”
She watched me carefully. “You’re not a detective.”
“No. I hire them.”
“Within the law.”
I closed the folder. “Within the law.”
Elise softened then, just slightly.
“I know what this is doing to you.”
“You don’t.”
“I know enough.”
I walked to the window.
My father had left too.
Not at an airport. Not on a bench. Not with the clean cruelty of walking onto a plane.
He had left by degrees.
A missed dinner.
A forgotten birthday.
A promise postponed.
A door closed at the end of a hallway while my mother cried quietly in the kitchen.
Then one day, he was simply gone, and everyone expected me to become a man at twelve because somebody had to.
I had built an empire partly because I never wanted to need anyone again.
And then two five-year-olds had sat under fluorescent lights at Gate 17 and undone me with silence.
“Elise,” I said, still facing the city, “what happens next?”
“Temporary placement. Investigation. A shelter hearing. The court decides whether the children can return to Claire, go to relatives, or remain in care while things are sorted.”
“And if no relatives are suitable?”
“Then longer-term foster placement, guardianship possibilities, eventually other options.”
“Could I—”
“No.”
I turned.
