I took two ibuprofen with a bottle of water.

The sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows across the concrete parking lot.

“I called Detective Vance again,” Claire said as she pumped gas. “He’s waiting at a diner two miles from the facility.”

“Is he bringing backup?” I asked.

“He’s going to do a welfare check,” Claire said. “Since we have the power of attorney documents you found, we have a legal right to inquire.”

I buckled Tommy back in.

We drove the remaining forty miles in silence.

The landscape changed from open highway to moss-draped live oaks and older, single-story homes.

Ocala was horse country, quiet and sprawling.

We pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Sunny Diner.

An unmarked gray sedan was parked near the back, its engine idling.

A tall man in a dark brown sport coat got out of the sedan as we parked.

He had short-cropped gray hair and a weathered face.

He walked over to my window.

I rolled it down.

“Rachel Carter?” he asked.

“Yes, Detective,” I said.

He looked at Tommy in the back seat, then at Claire.