The screen of my phone showed only the empty study.

Outside, the gray Atlantic waves rolled over the dark rocks.

Harrison stirred in the booth beside me, letting out a soft sigh as he turned onto his side.

My phone vibrated against the table.

It was another text from Lydia.

The text from Lydia was brief.

“He is on his way there,” it read.

I tapped the screen, closing the security feed from our Connecticut house.

I opened a different app, one linked to the smart-doorbell camera at my mother’s house in Danbury.

The diner in Maine was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter.

I took a slow sip of my lukewarm coffee.

It tasted of burnt chicory and paper cups.

Beside me, Harrison breathed softly, his small fist pressed against his cheek.

The screen of my phone showed the front porch of my mother’s split-level home.

A gray mist hung over the manicured lawn.

My mother’s car was not in the driveway; Lydia had arranged for her to stay at a hotel nearby.