The house felt strangely quiet that afternoon. Too quiet.

Maybe it was the aftermath of the bomb scare two days prior. Or the fact that it was the weight of hope that had flared and then died when the police confirmed the box held no fingerprints, no traceable parts, nothing they could use.

A dead end again.

Myla was upstairs napping, curled against Hayden’s pillow, trying to shake off the tension that had settled into her shoulders. Hayden was in his study reviewing contracts. Downstairs, ...