Hammer turned the photograph over so slowly that Lyla could hear the faint rasp of paper against the workbench.
On the back, beneath the date, a name had been written in dark, deliberate strokes.
Daniel “Hammer” Reyes.
Lyla read it twice before looking up.
“That’s you.”
Hammer nodded, though his face had gone pale.
“Daniel was my name before everyone started calling me Hammer.”
Her eyes dropped to the message beneath it.
“If anything happens to me, protect our daughter.
Trust the scratch.”
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
The garage seemed to have changed around them.
The ticking wall clock sounded louder, the fluorescent lights harsher, and the familiar scent of oil and metal suddenly carried the weight of another life.
“Our daughter?” Lyla whispered.
Hammer placed both hands on the workbench.
“I didn’t know you were alive.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
His jaw tightened.
“Mara was your biological mother.”
The name struck Lyla with a strange familiarity, as if it had been waiting somewhere inside her for years.
“Mara,” she repeated.
“She was the woman in the photograph.”
“Who was she to you?”
Hammer looked at the picture instead of answering.
“For a while, she was everything.”
Lyla’s fingers curled around the edge of the photograph.
“And then?”
“Then people began looking for her.”
He lifted his eyes to hers.
“People who had money, influence, and reasons to make sure she disappeared.”
Lyla felt the room tilt again, but this time she remained standing by gripping the bench.
“My mother’s name was June.”
“I know.”
“You just said Mara was my biological mother.”
“I know what I said.”
“Then June lied to me.”
Hammer’s expression softened with something that looked like grief.
“She lied to protect you.”
“That’s what people say when they want a lie to sound kind.”
He accepted the words without defending himself.
Lyla had expected anger from him, or perhaps some dramatic explanation that would make everything fall neatly into place.
Instead, he stood there with his shoulders bent beneath seventeen years of regret.
That made it harder to hate him.
She hated that, too.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
Hammer pulled a wooden chair from beneath the workbench.
“Sit down.”
“I’m not sitting until you start talking.”
“All right.”
He remained standing.
“Mara Everly was twenty-two when I met her.”
Lyla stared at the photograph.
In it, Mara looked younger than June had ever seemed, but there was a confidence in her posture that made her appear older than her years.
“She rode that Harley better than I did,” Hammer continued.
“She could take an engine apart, put it back together, and tell you which bolt had been replaced by listening to it run.”
Despite herself, Lyla almost smiled.
“That sounds like June.”
“June learned from Mara.”
The smile disappeared.
“You knew June, too?”
Hammer nodded.
“She was Mara’s closest friend.”
Lyla stepped away from the workbench.
“My mother never told me any of this.”
“June wasn’t your mother by birth.”
“She was my mother in every way that mattered.”
“I’m not taking that from you.”
“Then don’t stand there and explain her to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Hammer let the accusation settle between them.
“You have every right to be angry.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“At June?”
“At me.”
“Why?”
“Because I should have found you.”
His voice broke on the last word.
Lyla looked at him more closely.
The large man who had silenced an entire parking lot now seemed uncertain where to place his hands.
“I was told Mara and the baby were dead,” he said.
“Who told you?”
“People working for Mara’s father.”
Lyla felt the cold begin in her chest.
“Her father?”
“Victor Vale.”
The name meant nothing to her, yet Hammer spoke it as though it belonged to a locked room.
“Mara came from a wealthy family,” he continued.
“Her father owned businesses across three states and had connections everywhere.”
“Why would he want his own daughter gone?”
“Because Mara found out what those businesses were really doing.”
Hammer paused.
“She discovered that Victor was moving money through companies that existed only on paper.”
“And she planned to expose him?”
“With June’s help.”
Lyla looked down at the message again.
“If anything happens to me, protect our daughter.”
“What happened to Mara?”
Hammer’s eyes lowered.
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“I know.”
“You loved her.”
“Yes.”
“You had a child with her.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t know what happened?”
“I know the last thing she said to me.”
Lyla folded her arms.
“What?”
“She told me she was taking you somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Why not?”
“Because she believed someone was listening.”
The garage door stood open behind them, revealing the fading afternoon and the empty stretch of pavement beyond.
A breeze moved through the building, stirring old receipts and lifting a strand of dust into the golden light.
“Mara had received threats,” Hammer said.
“She believed Victor knew about you.”
“About me?”
“About the baby.”
Lyla’s throat tightened.
“She called you our daughter.”
“That message was written before I left.”
“You left?”
Hammer closed his eyes.
“For a short time.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I could draw attention away from her.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
His honesty was so immediate that it frightened her.
“What did you do?”
“I left town after a confrontation with one of Victor’s men.”
“I believed Mara would be safer if people thought I was gone.”
“But she wasn’t.”
“No.”
“Then you abandoned her.”
Hammer’s face flinched.
“I did.”
The word remained between them, heavier than anything else he had said.
Lyla thought of all the times June had stood at the kitchen window waiting for headlights that never came.
She thought of the unanswered questions about her father, the careful silences, the way June had always changed the subject whenever the past appeared.
“Did Mara blame you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never spoke to her again?”
“Not after that night.”
“Then how did you learn she was dead?”
“Three weeks later, a package arrived.”
Hammer opened the cardboard box and removed a folded document.
“It contained a report saying Mara and the baby had died in a highway accident.”
Lyla’s eyes fixed on the paper.
“And you believed it?”
“I wanted to believe it was false.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t believe it.”
“Then why did you stop looking?”
“I didn’t.”
He unfolded another document.
“This was the proof they gave me.”
The paper was yellowed with age and creased along the edges.
Lyla read the names.
Mara Everly.
Female infant, unidentified.
A date seventeen years earlier.
There was a seal, a signature, and a report number.
Everything looked official.
Too official.
“Where are the photographs?” she asked.
“There were none.”
“Where is the hospital?”
“The hospital listed in the report had no record of either patient.”
Lyla looked up sharply.
“You knew that?”
“I found out later.”
“Then why did you keep this?”
“Because it was all I had.”
His fingers tightened around the document.
“I searched for years.”
“And June?”
“I didn’t know she had you.”
Lyla laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“She knew you were alive.”
Hammer stared at her.
“What?”
“June knew.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No.”
“Then how can you be certain?”
“Because I found letters.”
Lyla opened the box again and removed a small bundle tied with blue thread.
“These were in June’s things.”
Hammer did not reach for them.
“May I see them?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
“You don’t get to be patient and understanding now.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I do.”
She untied the thread and unfolded the first letter.
The handwriting was unmistakably June’s.
Daniel,
I saw someone watching the house again.
You must remain where you are.
Lyla is safe.
The next letter was shorter.
She has your eyes.
Do not come back.
The third contained only one line.
If you love her, let her grow up without knowing your name.
Lyla’s vision blurred.
She pressed the page flat against the workbench.
“Why would she write this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have an idea.”
“Maybe she thought I was being followed.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“By Victor?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Hammer,” someone called from the garage entrance.
Lyla turned.
An older biker stood just inside the doorway, holding two paper cups of coffee.
He had a silver braid, a canvas jacket, and the wary expression of someone who had learned not to interrupt grief unless necessary.
“Cal,” Hammer said.
Cal glanced at Lyla.
“I can leave.”
“No,” Lyla said.
She wanted another witness, someone who could confirm that this was real.
Cal placed the cups on a nearby shelf.
“Your friend here has been searching for Mara for most of his adult life,” he said.
Hammer’s expression hardened.
“Cal.”
“She deserves the truth.”
“I know.”
Cal looked at Lyla.
“We all thought the report was false.”
“Then why did no one find her?”
“Because every trail ended at Victor Vale.”
Lyla looked back at Hammer.
“Who is he?”
“Your grandfather,” Hammer said.
The word seemed to echo through the garage.
Lyla felt suddenly detached from her own body, as though she were watching a stranger react.
“My grandfather is Victor Vale?”
“Biologically, yes.”
“And June knew?”
“She was trying to keep you out of his reach.”
“By pretending to be my mother.”
“By raising you,” Hammer said.
Lyla snapped her head toward him.
“You don’t get to make that distinction for me.”
“I’m not.”
“June changed diapers, sat beside me when I was sick, worked two jobs, and stayed awake when I had nightmares.”
“I know.”
“She was there.”
“I know.”
“You weren’t.”
Hammer’s eyes shone.
“No.”
The answer left Lyla with nowhere to place her anger.
She wanted him to deny it.
She wanted him to say he had been prevented, deceived, or imprisoned.
Instead, he simply accepted the empty years.
“Did June ever tell you where I was?”
“No.”
“Did you send her these letters?”
“No.”
“Then how did she know you were alive?”
Hammer’s brow furrowed.
“I don’t know.”
Lyla searched through the bundle and found an envelope with no address.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed a little girl of perhaps three years old, sitting on the steps of a white house with a yellow bicycle beside her.
The girl had dark curls, a missing front tooth, and a familiar tilt to her head.
Lyla knew the house.
She had grown up there.
On the back, written in June’s hand, were four words.
He should see her smile.
Hammer took the photograph when she offered it.
His large thumb moved carefully along the edge.
“She sent you this,” Lyla said.
“Not directly.”
“You kept it.”
“I never saw it before.”
The realization seemed to frighten him more than anything else.
“Then how did it get into your box?”
Neither of them answered.
Cal walked toward the workbench.
“Maybe June left it there.”
“When?” Hammer asked.
“Recently.”
Lyla looked at him.
“Did you see June?”
“No.”
“Has she been here?”
“Not that I know of.”
Hammer reached beneath the workbench and pulled out a ledger.
He opened it to the final pages.
Several entries had been added in black ink over the past year.
No names.
Only dates and brief notes.
A package left beneath the rear gate.
A woman in a blue coat near the highway.
A photograph delivered without a return address.
Lyla leaned closer.
“Those were from June?”
“I assumed they were from Mara.”
“Why?”
“Because the first one arrived shortly after I heard Mara might still be alive.”
Lyla read the final entry.
A message received.
The girl is safe.
Do not approach her yet.
The handwriting was not June’s.
It was thin, slanted, and strangely familiar.
Lyla lifted her gaze.
“Who wrote this?”
Hammer stared at the page.
“I don’t know.”
A sound came from outside.
Not an engine.
Not footsteps.
A soft metallic click near the motorcycle.
Cal moved toward the open door, but Hammer raised a hand.
“Nobody rushes out.”
Lyla’s pulse quickened.
Hammer crossed the garage and lowered the door until only a narrow strip of evening remained.
The Harley stood beneath the fading light, its fresh seventy-eight-centimeter scratch bright against the burgundy paint.
Something white had been tucked beneath the handlebar.
Hammer unlocked the door and stepped outside.
Lyla followed despite his warning.
The parking lot was empty.
No cars moved along the road.
No one stood between the buildings.
Hammer removed the folded paper from the handlebar and opened it.
His face changed before he spoke.
“What is it?” Lyla asked.
He handed it to her.
The message contained only one sentence.
You found her because she wanted you to.
Beneath it was a symbol drawn in black ink.
A small crescent crossed by three lines.
Lyla had seen it before.
Not on the motorcycle.
Not in the letters.
In the corner of an old photograph hanging in June’s hallway.
She looked at Hammer.
“What does this mean?”
He did not answer.
Then, with trembling fingers, he turned over the photograph of Mara and pointed to the same symbol hidden beneath the date.
Mara had not merely left him a message.
She had left a trail.
And somewhere at the end of it, someone who had been watching Lyla for seventeen years had finally decided she was ready to know the truth.
Hammer kept staring at the symbol as if it had become a door and he was waiting for it to open.
Lyla held the note between them.
“You know what it means.”
“I know where I’ve seen it.”
“Where?”
“On Mara’s things.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” Hammer said.
“It isn’t.”
He folded the message carefully and placed it inside the inner pocket of his vest.
“Your mother used that symbol when she wanted me to know something was meant for me.”
“Mara.”
“Yes.”
“Not June?”
“June knew about it, but the symbol belonged to Mara.”
Lyla looked toward the motorcycle.
The scratch she had made still ran across the burgundy tank, bright and deliberate.
“Then she knew I would come here.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe she knew I would find you.”
Hammer said nothing.
The silence was more frightening than any certainty could have been.
Cal came outside and stood beneath the half-lowered garage door.
“Did you see anyone?”
“No,” Hammer replied.
Cal looked at the note in Lyla’s hand.
“Another message?”
Lyla nodded.
“Then we should stop standing in the open.”
Hammer glanced toward the road.
There was no one there, but the evening had deepened enough for every parked car to look occupied.
They returned to the garage, and Cal lowered the door completely.
The room seemed smaller with the outside world shut away.
Lyla placed the photograph of Mara on the workbench beside the note.
“I want to know what the symbol means.”
Hammer pulled a wooden crate from beneath a shelf.
It contained old tools, receipts, and several pieces of machinery wrapped in cloth.
He removed a narrow metal box with a broken clasp.
“Mara kept this in the motorcycle’s original toolbox,” he said.
“You still have the toolbox?”
“The bike was rebuilt after an accident.”
“And the box?”
“I thought it was empty.”
He opened it.
Inside lay a rusted socket wrench, two dried leaves, and a folded library receipt.
Lyla leaned over the workbench.
The receipt was dated seventeen years earlier.
The name printed near the top was almost unreadable, but the address below it remained clear.
Everly Memorial Library.
“Why would Mara go to a library?”
“Because she didn’t trust computers.”
“That sounds like her?”
Hammer’s expression softened.
“She believed paper could be hidden better than information.”
Lyla picked up the receipt.
At the bottom, beneath the list of borrowed books, someone had written a number in blue ink.
Thirty-two.
She turned it over.
Nothing.
“What does thirty-two mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve had this box for seventeen years.”
“I never knew it was here.”
“Then how did you find it now?”
Hammer looked at the scratch on the Harley.
“Because the seat had to be lifted.”
Lyla’s hand went still.
“Was the box hidden beneath the seat?”
“No.”
“Then why did Mara tell me to scratch the tank?”
Hammer stared at the motorcycle.
“I don’t know.”
The answer irritated her more than any lie could have.
She took the receipt and slipped it into her coat pocket.
“Then we go to the library.”
“It closed six years ago.”
“Of course it did.”
“The building still stands.”
“Then we go there.”
Cal shook his head.
“You should wait until morning.”
Lyla turned toward him.
“For what?”
“For someone to tell us whether going there is wise.”
“No one has told me anything honestly for seventeen years.”
Cal accepted the rebuke.
“That doesn’t mean you should walk into every mystery without thinking.”
“I am thinking.”
“You’re grieving.”
“I can be both.”
Hammer looked from Cal to Lyla.
“She’s right.”
Cal sighed.
“Daniel.”
The old name seemed to carry a warning.
Hammer ignored it.
“We’ll go together.”
“I don’t need an escort.”
“No,” he said.
“But you may need someone who knows what to look for.”
Lyla wanted to refuse.
The refusal rose quickly, shaped by years of defending herself against pity and sudden attention.
Then she remembered the photograph of Mara sitting on the Harley, young and certain, and the message asking Hammer to protect their daughter.
She folded the receipt again.
“Fine.”
Cal reached for his keys.
“I’m coming too.”
“No,” Hammer said.
“Someone should stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because if the note was meant to draw us away, I want the garage watched.”
Lyla looked at the closed door.
“Do you think someone is trying to trick us?”
“I think we don’t know enough to decide what anyone wants.”
That was the first thing he had said all evening that sounded like wisdom rather than regret.
They left through the rear entrance.
Hammer drove an old gray pickup instead of the Harley, and Lyla sat in the passenger seat with the receipt in her lap.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke.
Streetlights passed across the windshield, briefly illuminating the lines of Hammer’s face.
“Did Mara ever talk about me?” Lyla asked.
“She talked about everything.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
He tightened his hands around the steering wheel.
“She talked about the child she hoped you would become.”
“What did she hope I would become?”
“Strong, but not hard.”
Lyla looked out the window.
“June used to say something like that.”
“Mara and June agreed about many things.”
“Except telling me the truth.”
“They were afraid the truth would lead Victor to you.”
“Victor didn’t need the truth.”
Hammer glanced at her.
“What do you mean?”
“He found me anyway.”
The truck seemed to lose speed.
“What?”
“I don’t know if he did.”
“You just said—”
“I saw the symbol in June’s hallway.”
“That could have been a coincidence.”
“It could have.”
“But you think it wasn’t.”
“I think too many things in my life have been called coincidences.”
Hammer was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, “June may have had reasons.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sound as if you believe that.”
“I believe she loved me.”
“That isn’t the same as believing she made the right choices.”
“No.”
Lyla held the receipt against her knee.
“Did she send you updates?”
Hammer’s expression changed.
“What kind of updates?”
“Letters.”
“I saw the letters.”
“Those weren’t all of them.”
He looked at her sharply.
“How many were there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are they?”
“In June’s house.”
“Did she write about me?”
“She wrote that I was safe.”
“She knew I was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Then she knew I was alive too.”
Lyla did not answer.
The truck turned toward the old district where the library stood.
Hammer’s voice grew quieter.
“She may have believed contact would put you in danger.”
“She made that decision for both of us.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that like it excuses you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Does it excuse her?”
“No.”
The library appeared at the end of the street, its stone facade dark beneath a row of overgrown trees.
The front windows had been boarded, but the bronze letters above the entrance remained.
Everly Memorial Library.
Lyla stared at the name.
“Everly,” she said.
“Your grandfather funded it.”
“Of course he did.”
“Mara hated the place.”
“Why?”
“She said Victor built it so people would praise the family while ignoring what happened behind the family’s gates.”
Hammer parked near the side entrance.
A chain hung across the front steps, but the side door was secured only by a swollen wooden bar.
He lifted it free.
Inside, the air smelled of dust, old paper, and damp plaster.
Moonlight entered through cracks in the boards and fell across rows of empty shelves.
Lyla walked slowly between them.
The library had been abandoned, but not entirely cleared.
A child’s drawing remained taped to one wall.
A calendar from six years earlier hung behind the desk.
On the counter sat a wooden card catalog with dozens of drawers.
Hammer switched on a flashlight.
“Where do we start?”
Lyla opened the receipt.
“Book number thirty-two.”
“Maybe shelf thirty-two.”
They searched the aisles until they found a faded brass plaque marked 32.
Only three books remained on the shelf.
One was a history of the Everly family.
One was a book about motorcycle repair.
The third was a blank journal with a cracked green cover.
Lyla lifted the journal.
A small crescent crossed by three lines had been drawn on its spine.
Hammer’s breathing changed.
“That’s Mara’s symbol.”
Lyla opened the cover.
The first page contained a single sentence.
If you are reading this, the scratch has been completed.
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
“Keep going,” Hammer said.
The next page named several companies Lyla did not recognize.
Each had a date beside it and a short note describing money transferred between them.
Some entries referred to shipping firms, construction companies, and charitable foundations.
Others mentioned payments made to private investigators.
Lyla looked up.
“Is this what Mara found?”
“Probably.”
“Victor was stealing money?”
“Maybe more than that.”
Hammer took the journal but did not turn the page.
“Your mother believed he was hiding illegal activity through the businesses.”
“Why write it in a library book?”
“Because no one would search for evidence in a place carrying his family name.”
A floorboard creaked somewhere behind them.
Lyla froze.
Hammer raised the flashlight.
The beam traveled across the shelves, revealing dust floating in the air.
“Is someone here?”
“No,” Hammer said.
But he did not sound certain.
They waited.
Nothing moved.
Then a loose page slipped from the journal and drifted to the floor.
Lyla picked it up.
It contained a list of names.
At the bottom was June’s.
Beside it, in Mara’s handwriting, were the words:
The only person I trust with her life.
Lyla read the sentence twice.
Her eyes burned.
“She trusted June.”
“She trusted her completely.”
“Then why did June hide everything from me?”
“Because Mara asked her to.”
“Did she?”
Hammer did not answer.
Lyla turned another page.
A message had been written in a different hand.
June’s.
I will do what you ask, but Daniel must not be left without a sign.
Mara’s reply appeared beneath it.
He already has one.
The Harley.
Lyla pressed the journal closed.
“She planned the scratch.”
Hammer looked at the motorcycle repair book still resting on the shelf.
“Maybe.”
“She planned all of this.”
“Maybe she hoped.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Lyla opened the journal again.
A folded library card had been tucked inside the back cover.
The name on it was not Mara’s.
It belonged to Daniel Reyes.
Hammer stared at the card.
“I never borrowed this.”
“It has your name.”
“I never came here.”
“Maybe someone borrowed it for you.”
“Who?”
Before he could finish, a small metallic sound came from the far end of the room.
Lyla turned.
A narrow panel behind the reference desk had shifted open.
Hammer moved toward it, but she reached it first.
The panel concealed a shallow compartment.
Inside lay a brass key attached to a paper tag.
Everly House.
Lyla lifted the key.
The tag had been marked with the same number as the library receipt.
Thirty-two.
Hammer stood beside her.
“Everly House was abandoned after Victor left town.”
“Where is it?”
“Across the river.”
“Then we go there.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because the house has been empty for years, and we don’t know who may still have access.”
Lyla looked at the key.
“If Mara left this for me, she wanted me to use it.”
“Or someone wants you to believe that.”
“She said trust the scratch.”
Hammer’s gaze rested on the mark she had carved into his motorcycle.
“For once, I agree with her.”
They returned to the garage after midnight.
Cal was waiting beside the workbench, a file open in front of him.
He had found something in the old registration records for the Harley.
The motorcycle had originally belonged to Mara.
Lyla stood behind Hammer while Cal turned the page toward them.
The first owner was listed as Mara Everly.
The second was Daniel Reyes.
The third was June Bell.
Lyla stared at the final name.
“June owned the motorcycle?”
“For less than a year,” Cal said.
“Why?”
Hammer looked at the document.
“She must have taken it after Mara disappeared.”
“Then why did you have it?”
“I bought it from her.”
“When?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
Lyla faced him.
“You bought Mara’s motorcycle from June and never realized she knew where it was?”
“I thought she was selling it because she needed money.”
“She gave you the motorcycle.”
“I paid her.”
“Did she say why?”
Hammer’s silence answered before he did.
“She said Mara would want me to have it.”
Lyla stepped away.
“All these years, you knew June had the bike.”
“I knew June had the bike.”
“And you never asked how she got it?”
“I asked.”
“What did she say?”
“That Mara left it with her.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I wanted to.”
Lyla’s anger rose again, but beneath it was something more painful.
Everyone had possessed pieces of the truth.
Everyone had carried them carefully.
Everyone had decided she was too young, too vulnerable, or too important to be told.
She was tired of being protected by ignorance.
“Where is June now?” she asked.
Hammer looked at the letters on the workbench.
“I don’t know.”
The rear door opened.
No one had heard it unlock.
June stood in the doorway, wearing a dark coat and holding a small leather suitcase.
Her face looked older than it had that morning.
Not merely tired.
Resolved.
Lyla stopped breathing for a moment.
June’s eyes went first to Hammer, then to the journal, then to the brass key in Lyla’s hand.
“You found the library,” she said.
Lyla’s voice came out thin.
“You knew about it.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about the key.”
“Yes.”
“Where is Mara?”
June closed the door behind her.
The suitcase rested at her feet.
“I don’t know where she is now.”
Hammer stepped forward.
“But you knew she was alive.”
June looked at him with an old sorrow.
“I knew she survived.”
Lyla felt the room shift beneath her.
“You told me she was dead.”
“I told you the story that would keep you alive.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” June said.
“It is the truth.”
Hammer’s voice was unsteady.
“Why come here now?”
June looked at Lyla.
“Because Victor has found out that you are alive.”
The garage fell silent.
Lyla tightened her hand around the key.
“How?”
June’s face changed.
Someone had left a new envelope on the workbench.
It had not been there when they returned.
The paper bore no address, only a name.
Lyla Everly.
June reached for it, but Lyla got there first.
Inside was a recent photograph of Lyla standing outside the garage.
On the back, written in a hand none of them recognized, were seven words.
Your mother is waiting at Everly House.