“You look tired,” he said while adjusting his coat.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I answered, watching his reflection in the microwave door.
“We are almost there,” he said, resting a hand briefly on my shoulder.
We.
After he left, I stood in the kitchen until I heard the garage door close.
Then I opened my laptop. The report had arrived. Her name was Lauren Bishop. And beneath that name was everything.
Background, work history, social connections, patterns, and photographs that confirmed what I already knew but had not yet fully absorbed.
When I finished reading, the house looked the same.
But I did not. Because now I had a name. And names make things real.
I took everything to my attorney, a woman named Diane Foster, whose office overlooked downtown Stamford and carried the quiet authority of someone who did not waste energy on unnecessary theatrics.
She read through the folders in silence.
“Most clients come in here with suspicions,” she said finally. “You came in with documentation.”
“I prefer clarity,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “Because clarity wins.”