The Notebook
That night, the house was quiet except for the sound of rain. Max lay curled beside Lily’s bed, chest rising steady, a living weight against the emptiness that had lived in her room for nearly a year.
Rachel, tidying shelves, found Hannah’s old field notebook tucked behind a stack of bills.
She flipped it open. Not doodles. Not diary entries. But maps. Coordinates. Case numbers. Lists of chemical shipments.
And one name circled, again and again.
Vince Harding.
Rachel’s hands trembled. She showed Lily, whose eyes widened but didn’t cry. Instead, she turned her gaze to Max.
The shepherd stood, padded to the door, and barked once. Then again. As if he knew where to go.
