He raised both hands in mock surrender.
“Just giving friendly advice. Your husband, for instance. Heard he died in a crash. Real tragedy.”
The way he said tragedy made my skin go cold.
I looked at him and thought: you know something.
Maybe not enough to prove. Maybe not even enough to name. But something.
“Get off my property,” I said.
He backed toward the truck slowly, never taking his eyes off me.
“I’ll be around,” he said. “And when I find my stepdaughter—and I will—there’ll be consequences for anybody who thought they could hide her from me.”
He climbed back into the truck and drove off, but not fast. He rolled down the driveway with maddening slowness, head turning toward the barns and outbuildings as if mapping the place into memory.
Only when the truck vanished behind the trees did my legs fail. I sat down hard on the porch steps and realized I was drenched in sweat under my coat.
The door opened behind me.
Helena stepped out quietly and stood over me for a second before sitting beside me on the step above.
“You did good,” she said. “But he’ll come back. Men like Brendan always come back.”
I looked up at her.
“What did he do to Clare?”
Helena’s jaw went hard.