Evan's Smile

Kind Harbor's basement smelled like wet cardboard and old copier toner.

Nora had been down there twice in three years, both times to retrieve boxes for audits no one actually wanted. The key hung in the supply closet under a label that said holiday decorations. That felt right. Briar Glen hid useful things under cheerful lies.

Brooke waited in the stairwell, officially not there. Ruiz waited in the alley, officially concerned about illegal entry and unofficially watching exits.

"Ten minutes," Brooke whispered.

"You said seven in the car."

"I became generous."

Nora slipped between shelving rows. Intake 2019. Intake 2020. Hospice coordination. Foundation liaison. Her phone flashlight shook across box labels until it found the year of Miles's first death.

The box was empty.

"Of course," she muttered.

From above came the soft thud of a door.

Brooke appeared at the end of the aisle. "Someone is in the hall."

Nora shoved the empty box back, and a folder fell from behind it. Not in the box. Behind it. Wedged against the wall as if someone had hidden it in a hurry and never returned.

She grabbed it.

Brooke turned off Nora's flashlight with one hand.

Steps crossed overhead. Slow. Comfortable. Evan Rusk did not hurry in his own building.

"Nora?" he called through the floor above them. "If that is you, I can still explain before this becomes criminal."

Nora held her breath.

Brooke leaned close to her ear. "Do not answer."

The basement door opened.

Light spilled down the stairs.

Evan's silhouette filled the doorway. "I know how fear feels after a husband's death. Judith told me to be patient with you."

Brooke's eyes sharpened.

Judith had sent him. Or Evan wanted Nora to know she had.

Nora looked at the folder in her hand.

On the tab was one word: LILA.