The room seemed to press inward.
Nora looked at me. “This doesn’t mean something happened.”
“I know.”
But my voice sounded far away.
Daniel sat back. “There is a Paul Moretti listed in county property records. Same area. Sold a small house near Briar Lake eleven years ago.”
“After the scholarship article,” Nora said.
“Yes.”
“Where did he go?”
Daniel’s fingers moved over the keyboard. “Looks like he passed away four years ago. Obituary says survived by daughter, Anna Hayes.”
“Hayes,” I repeated.
Married name, maybe.
Alive.
The realization moved through me like air entering a sealed room.
Anna might be alive.
Daniel clicked again. “The obituary lists a town. Westhaven.”
Nora looked at me immediately. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I glanced toward Noah.
He was asleep. Safe. Warm. Mine.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Not today. Not alone. Not without talking to someone first.”
Nora’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I can contact Miriam,” I continued. “And the legal aid office. Maybe this doesn’t matter for custody. Maybe it’s just… something I need to understand.”
Daniel closed the laptop halfway. “Understanding can be useful. But so can boundaries.”
That sounded like something a teacher would say to a student who was about to make a historically bad decision.
I almost smiled.
Then my phone buzzed.
All three of us looked at it.
This time, the message came through the court-approved communication app, newly activated.
Evan Reed: I request immediate confirmation that my son is safe.
Nora read it over my shoulder. “He’s already starting.”
Another message arrived.
Evan Reed: I am concerned about your judgment after today’s performance.
