The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, casting the family home in warm golden lamplight. The kids were asleep upstairs—Amayrah curled up with her sketchpad beside her pillow, and Dennis tucked beneath his blanket, still clutching his stuffed bear.
Downstairs, Maya stood by the large living room window, arms folded, gaze distant. She hadn't changed out of her long coat yet, her body still tense from the visit to the surveillance cottage.
Damian stepped into the room, his eyes immediately finding her. He said nothing at first—he didn't need to. The set of her shoulders, the furrow in her brow, the slight tremble in her breath told him everything.
He walked over slowly and stopped behind her. "You're quiet," he said softly.
Maya didn't look at him. "There's a lot to sit with."
"I figured." His voice was gentle, laced with concern. He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she spoke, her voice low.
