Poppy Gone Again

The rage that hits me is beyond panic now. Panic at least asks permission from hope. This is cleaner. Owen used courtroom trust the same way Vivian used charity: as cover wide enough to move a child through. The hallway cameras catch only the back of his suit and Poppy's white raincoat before both vanish into the west stairwell and out a service entrance used for judges and catered lunches.

Nico orders roadblocks. Callum's intern pings the shared family tablet cloud. Nothing. Tessa rips the hearing badge off her own coat and says, "He'll go where he still thinks the story belongs to him."

I already know the answer before she finishes. Stillwater Point. The campaign lake house. The place Owen always chose when he wanted weather, privacy, and one more chance to sound reasonable.

Vivian says nothing as deputies move toward her row. That is what confirms it. If she were surprised, she would be furious at the lack of control. This silence is appraisal. She wants to see whether Owen can still recover the family frame before she decides whether he is worth preserving.

"You're not stopping him," I say to her.

"I'm not rescuing anyone from their truest instinct," Vivian answers.

I would hit her if it would help Poppy. It wouldn't. Nico has already put a deputy on Vivian and a second on Bell's last known associate. We move as a single ruined unit: me, Tessa, Nico, Callum half-stitched and stubborn, four federal vehicles, one storm front rolling in from Mercer Lake like old memory with teeth.

On the way out of the courthouse, my phone buzzes. Poppy's tablet at last. One live location ping. Stillwater Point.

Below it, one text typed with far more precision than a child under duress should have to use: He says this is love. Please hurry before Grandma gets here.