Sarah arrived at six with a bottle of wine she couldn't really afford and a look on her face like someone who had been awake for three days.

She had lost weight since the diner.

Her eyes were careful, watching me as I opened the door, as if she still wasn't sure what kind of welcome she was walking into.

"Come in," I said.

"It's cold."

She stepped inside and looked around the kitchen the way you look at a place you've been away from too long.

"It smells the same," she said.

"Like that soup you always made."

"Because I made it.

Sit down."

She sat.

I poured the wine.

We didn't speak for a moment, and it wasn't an uncomfortable silence — it was the kind that happens when two people are both trying to figure out where to start.

Sarah started.

"Greg called me this morning."

"What did he say?"

"He said he was staying with a friend.

He said he needed time to think about his next steps." She turned the wine glass slowly.

"He asked me whether I'd told you anything else.

Whether I'd given you any more information about Mercer or the agency."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd told you everything I knew." She looked up.

"He hung up."

I set my spoon down.

"Sarah.

There's something I need to tell you about Greg that you don't know yet."

I told her about the staffing agency.

About Kelsey Donahue.

About the registration documents with Greg's full name.

About the eighteen months of planning that had happened while she thought they were just struggling to keep up with rent.

She didn't cry.

She went very still, the way people do when something finally makes sense of a long list of things that never quite added up.

"He told me the job loss was sudden," she said.

"That it came out of nowhere."

"When did he actually lose it?"

"Eight months ago.

But looking back — the way he talked about work, the hours he kept, the calls he took in the other room—" She shook her head.

"He wasn't job hunting.

He was doing this."

"Yes."

"He was building a case against my father's will while I thought he was sending out resumes."

"Yes."

She picked up her wine glass and set it back down without drinking.

"What happens to him?"

"Howard is working with a colleague.

Depending on what Kelsey Donahue actually accessed and transmitted, Greg may be facing fraud charges.

Possibly more.

I don't know the timeline yet."

"And Mercer?"

"The same investigation will likely reach him."

She nodded slowly.

Then: "What happens to me?"

I looked at my daughter across the table.

She was thirty-four years old and she looked exhausted and small and more honest than I had seen her in years.

"You're not being investigated," I said.

"You didn't know about the agency.

You didn't know about the placement.

What you did — the moving truck, the diner — that was wrong, and we both know it.

But it wasn't fraud.

It was desperation pointed in the wrong direction."

"I should have come to you."

"Yes.

You should have."

"I was ashamed.

We'd asked for so much already.

I thought if I just—" She stopped.

"I thought if I could just make it work somehow, I wouldn't have to admit how bad things had gotten."

"How bad are they?"

She told me.

All of it.

The real numbers.

The credit cards.

The months of falling behind.

The way Greg had managed the finances so she never saw the full picture until it was too late.

By the time she finished, the soup had gone cold and the wine was barely touched.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?"

"We're going to make a list.

What you actually owe, what you actually earn, what you actually need.

Not what Greg said.

The real numbers.

And then we figure out what's possible."

"Mom, I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking.

I'm deciding." I picked up my spoon again.

"Eat your soup.

It's getting cold."

She laughed.

It was a small, tired sound, but it was real.

The first real thing I'd heard from her in months.

We stayed at that table for three hours.