The road looked empty, but the little girl kept staring behind her like something terrible was still coming.

Rourke had Lila on the back of his bike and moving within two minutes.

She didn't cry when they left.

She just looked back at Dex over Rourke's shoulder with those wide, serious eyes — the kind of eyes that had already seen too much and learned not to show it — until the road curved and she was gone.

Dex watched until he couldn't see them anymore.

Then he turned around.

Marsh was walking toward them now.

Slow, unhurried, like a man who believed he still controlled the situation.

The second man stayed by the truck.

Colt moved to Dex's left.

Two other riders closed the line on his right.

Nobody spoke.

Marsh stopped about ten feet away.

He looked at the space where Lila had been.

Then he looked at Dex.

"You just made a serious mistake," Marsh said.

His voice was smooth.

Practiced.

The voice of a man who'd talked his way out of things before.

"She was standing alone on a road," Dex said.

"Crying.

Shaking.

Saying someone was following her." He tilted his head slightly.

"That someone you?"

"She's a troubled child.

She runs.

She imagines things." Marsh's expression didn't change.

"I'm her legal guardian.

You've just taken her without consent.

That's kjdnapping."

"Funny word coming from you."

Marsh's eyes narrowed.

Just slightly.

"I don't know what she told you.

But she has a history of lying.

She's been in and out of three placements.

She makes up stories."

"She didn't make up the bracelet."

That landed.

Marsh's chin lifted a fraction of an inch.

The only crack in the smooth surface.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Silver bracelet.

Name engraved on it.

She was wearing it when she came to me." Dex kept his voice level.

"I had that bracelet made.

I gave it to a woman named Nora.

Seven years ago.

So I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to think carefully before you answer." He took one step forward.

"Where is Nora?"

Marsh looked at him for a long moment.

Then something shifted in his face — not fear, not yet, but a recalculation.

A man deciding which lie to use.

"Nora made her choices," he said.

"She's not your concern anymore."

"She had a child." Dex's voice stayed quiet.

"That child was wearing Nora's bracelet.

That child was running from you on an empty road." He paused.

"So yes.

She is my concern."

"You have no idea what you're involved in."

"Then explain it to me."

Marsh smiled.

It didn't reach his eyes.

"Walk away, Dex.

Take your crew.

Go back to whatever it is you do.

The girl will be returned to proper care by tonight and none of this needs to go any further." He spread his hands slightly.

"I'm trying to give you an exit."

Colt made a quiet sound beside Dex.

Not a laugh.

Something shorter than that.

"The house with the blue door," Dex said.

"Where is it?"

Marsh's smile faded.

"She told you about that."

"She did."

"Then she also told you it was safe.

Clean.

Licensed." He straightened.

"You won't find anything there."

"We'll see."

Marsh took a step closer.

His voice dropped.

The smooth surface cracked just enough to show what was underneath.

"I have people in this county, Dex.

Judges.

Sheriffs.

People who owe me.

If you push this, it won't be me who suffers.

It'll be the girl.

She'll be placed somewhere you'll never find her, and whatever story she told you will disappear with her." He let that sit for a second.

"Is that what you want?"

Dex looked at him.

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't move.

"Get back in your truck," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Get back in your truck.

Drive away.

And understand that the next time I see you, we won't be talking."

Something passed through Marsh's eyes.

He looked at the line of men behind Dex.

He looked at Dex's face.

He did the math.

He turned and walked back to the truck.

The door closed.

The engine started.

The truck reversed slowly, then turned and drove back the way it had come.

Colt exhaled.

"He's not done."

"No," Dex said.

"He's not."

He was already pulling out his phone.

He had one contact he hadn't used in two years — a woman named Grace who worked in the county records office and owed him a favor she'd never been able to repay.

He found her number.

"I need an address," he said when she picked up.

"A house with a blue door.

Somewhere in this county.

Registered as a care placement or a foster home.

It'll be under a clean name.

Something that looks right on paper."

A pause on the line.

Then: "Dex, it's been two years."

"I know.

I'm calling it in."

Another pause.