I waited until I heard the heavy security door at the bottom of the stairs click shut.

Then I walked back to the kitchen window.

The black SUV was still parked in the visitor space.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

It was a text from my mother, letting me know she was keeping Nolan at her house for another hour.

I decided to take the kitchen trash bag down to the dumpster to get some fresh air.

The air outside was freezing, biting at my bare wrists.

I tossed the white plastic bag into the metal bin and turned to walk back to the stairs.

A car door slammed behind me.

I froze, my sneakers scraping against the gravel on the asphalt.

“Claire,” a voice called out.

It was Grant.

He walked toward me, his expensive leather jacket open, revealing a tailored grey shirt.

His face was tight, his jaw clenched as he stepped into my path.

“What is Renee Whitaker doing here?” he demanded.

“She is doing her job, Grant,” I said, backing up a step.

“She is evaluating Nolan’s living conditions.”