Grant connected the flash drive to an offline laptop.

Folders filled the screen.

Shipping manifests.

Bank transfers.

Internal emails.

Photographs.

Recorded conversations.

I understood almost none of it.

Then Grant opened a folder labeled HARPERS.

My blood ran cold.

There were hundreds of photographs.

Our house.

My car.

Miles's school.

Rachel's building.

Our grocery store.

Our dentist.

Even the small coffee shop where I worked part-time after Grant disappeared.

Someone had documented our lives.

“How long?”

I whispered.

“Three years.”

I scrolled faster.

Then I found something worse.

Copies of emails.

My emails.

Messages I had sent Rachel.

Messages I had sent Grant's old address after his disappearance because some nights pretending he might read them was the only way I could sleep.

“How did they get these?”

Grant's jaw tightened.

“Someone had access to your accounts.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

“You said it proves someone we trusted helped Vale.”

Grant opened another file.

It contained payment records.

One name appeared repeatedly.

OWEN HARPER.

I stopped breathing.

Grant's older brother.

Miles's uncle.

The man who had stood beside me during the search.

The man who had organized food for volunteers.

The man who had helped me file Grant's death paperwork.

The man who had spent Christmas morning at our house every year since Grant disappeared.

“No.”

Grant looked away.

“No.”

I stood.

“That's not possible.”

“I wish it wasn't.”

“Owen loved you.”

“I thought so too.”

“He paid for part of the search.”

“Vale paid him more.”

I stared at the screen.

Transactions stretched back four years.

Some began before Grant disappeared.

“Owen knew?”

“Yes.”

“Knew what?”

“Who I had been.”

My chest tightened.

Grant explained that Owen wasn't his biological brother.

They had met after Grant entered a federal protection program.

The Harper family had been part of Grant's cover.

Owen knew pieces of the truth, but not everything.

Eventually, gambling debts and a failed business pushed him toward the wrong people.

Vale discovered Owen's connection to Grant.

Then money did the rest.

I felt physically ill.

“Owen was in my house yesterday.”

Grant turned sharply.

“What?”

“He took Miles to lunch last weekend.”

The color left Grant's face.

“Laura.”

“He has keys.”

Grant stood immediately.

“Call Rachel.”

I grabbed my phone.

She didn't answer.

I called again.

Nothing.

Grant picked up another phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Mara.”

Her line went to voicemail.

I called Rachel a third time.

Still nothing.

Then a message arrived from Rachel's number.

It contained a photograph.

Miles was sitting on Rachel's couch.

Owen stood behind him.

His hand rested on Miles's shoulder.

Beneath the photo was one sentence.

COME HOME, LAURA.