he said softly.

“We came as soon as we heard.”

“That’s interesting,” Daniel replied.

“The hospital called me twenty minutes ago.”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed.

Malcolm did not blink.

“Claire is very dear to us.

The foundation will cover anything she needs.

Medical care.

Rehabilitation.

Privacy.”

Daniel heard the last word clearly.

Privacy.

He stepped closer to Bell.

“Did you check her fingernails?”

Bell’s jaw tightened.

“Forensics will—”

“Did you check them?”

“Daniel.”

“She didn’t fight,” Daniel said, loud enough now that the Hawthornes could hear.

“Claire fights when a stranger touches her.

So either she was unconscious before the first blow, or she trusted whoever got close enough to restrain her.”

Reid laughed under his breath.

“This is grief talking.”

Daniel turned to him.

“No.

Grief is what’s keeping me polite.”

Graham took one step forward, but Malcolm lifted a hand and the son stopped immediately.

That tiny obedience told Daniel more than a threat would have.

Malcolm came close enough for his aftershave to cut through the hospital smell.

“You have been away a long time.

Claire was under tremendous stress.

People in delicate mental states make dangerous choices.

They open doors.

They get involved with the wrong people.

They hide things from their husbands.”

Daniel’s hand curled once, then opened.

“What did she find?” he asked.

For the first time, Malcolm’s face changed.

Not much.

A pause where there should have been a reply.

Then Vivian said, “Excuse me?”

Daniel looked at Owen.

The coffee cup in Owen’s hand buckled.

A brown line spilled over his knuckles.

He did not seem to feel the heat.

“What did my wife find in your books?” Daniel asked.

Sheriff Bell stepped between them.

“That’s enough.”

Malcolm’s smile returned.

“Go home, Daniel.

Sleep.

Come back with a clearer head.”

Daniel glanced through the glass at Claire’s still body.

“I just came from home,” he said.

“Someone cleaned it before I arrived.”

Bell’s face drained of color.

Vivian’s phone buzzed.

She looked down, read something, and whispered to Malcolm.

Daniel caught only two words.

Tide clock.

Malcolm looked at him again.

This time there was no sympathy in his expression at all.

Daniel left before rage could make him careless.

He drove home with every sense turned outward.

A black SUV followed him for three blocks, then turned into a church parking lot when he slowed.

He parked two houses down from his own and walked through the rain without using the front path.

Inside, the house felt staged.

He did not turn on lights.

He used the small flashlight from his response kit and moved from room to room, photographing everything before he touched it.

The kitchen drawer where Claire kept her spare keys had been dumped, then arranged.

The bedroom closet safe was open and empty, though Claire had never trusted safes and kept nothing important there.

Her laptop was gone.

He stood beneath the pantry clock.

The old brass tide clock had belonged to Claire’s grandfather, a shrimper who claimed he could smell a storm before the radio did.

Claire loved it because it was beautiful and useless this far from real tides.

Before Daniel deployed, she had asked him to tighten the loose screw on the side.

“Promise you’ll check it when you come home,” she had said.

He