Mara opened the rear door.
Clara hesitated.
Silas crouched beside her. It had been years since he had placed himself at a child’s height. The motion felt unnatural, almost painful.
“I won’t force you into the car,” he said. “But those men will come back with more men. If you stay, Rose gets hurt. Maybe others too.”
Clara looked toward the diner door.
Then at the alley.
Then at him.
“Are you really bad?” she asked.
Mara looked away.
Silas answered honestly.
“Yes.”
Clara thought about that.
“But are you bad to children?”
Something in Silas’s expression hardened.
“No.”
She climbed into the SUV.
Silas stood, closed the door, and looked at Mara.
“Find out who those men work for.”
“I already have people on it.”
“Find out faster.”
They drove into the rain.
For a while, Clara said nothing. She sat in the back seat holding the bakery box on her lap with both hands, as if pie were some sacred object she had been trusted to protect. Silas sat beside her. Mara drove. The city slid past them in broken reflections: pawn shops, palm trees, apartment windows, billboards smiling down at streets that did not smile back.
Finally, Silas asked, “Where are your parents?”
Clara stared at the pie box.
“My mom died when I was little.”
“And your father?”
“He told me to run.”
Silas looked at her.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“From where?”
“A parking lot near the river.”
Mara’s eyes lifted to the mirror.
Silas kept his voice even. “Why were you there?”
“He said we were going to meet someone who could help. A woman with a blue scarf. But she never came. Then two vans came instead.”
“What did your father do?”
Clara pressed her lips together.
“He pushed me under a truck. He gave me my backpack. He said, ‘Find a wolf who hates cages.’”
Mara’s hands tightened on the wheel.
Silas did not speak.
Clara continued, “I didn’t know what that meant.”
“But you picked me.”
She nodded. “The waitress was scared of you. The men were scared of you too. And you looked at exits before you looked at me.”
Silas turned his gaze to the window.
Too observant. Too trained. Too young.
“What is your father’s name?”
“Owen Wren.”
Mara inhaled softly.
Silas looked at her. “You know it?”
“Maybe. A mechanic. Worked contracts at the municipal vehicle depot. Quiet guy. No record except two arrests that disappeared.”
Clara looked frightened. “He didn’t do anything bad.”
Silas believed her, which surprised him.
“What was he trying to tell the woman in the blue scarf?” he asked.
Clara glanced down at her backpack.
Silas noticed.
“Something in the bag?”
She hugged it tighter.
“My dad said not to give it to anyone unless they did something brave before asking for it.”
Silas looked at her.
“You got me out first,” she said.
Mara drove them to a house in Silver Lake that did not appear on any paperwork connected to Silas. It was small, white, ordinary, and guarded by two people who looked ordinary only from far away. Inside, the rooms were clean and spare. No photographs. No art. Nothing breakable. Nothing sentimental.
Clara stood in the living room dripping rain onto the wooden floor.
Silas brought her a towel.
She stared at it.
“What?” he asked.
“My dad said rich bad men don’t bring towels themselves.”
Silas gave the towel to her. “Your father has opinions.”
“He has a lot of them.”
She dried her hair badly.
Mara brought warm clothes from an emergency bag: sweatpants, a large gray hoodie, thick socks. Clara changed in the bathroom while Silas stood in the kitchen, listening to the rain.
Mara came in with a tablet.
“The men from the diner are tied to a private transport company called Northline Child Services.”
Silas frowned. “Child services?”
“Not the real department. A contractor. Court-approved transportation, emergency removals, temporary placement transfers. They move kids.”
Silas looked toward the bathroom door.
Mara lowered her voice. “The company is clean on paper. Too clean. Owned through three shells. One of them touches a foundation called Bright Harbor Initiative.”
Silas’s eyes darkened. “Judge Callum Price sits on that board.”
“Yes.”
Judge Callum Price was beloved by television cameras. He gave speeches about protecting children. He cried at fundraisers. He wore soft blue ties and spoke in a gentle voice. He had once sentenced a sixteen-year-old boy to fifteen years after refusing to look at evidence Silas had paid dearly to bury.
Silas had not thought about the boy in years.
He thought about him now.
Clara came out in the hoodie. It swallowed her small frame.
Silas opened the refrigerator. “Do you eat peanut butter?”
“Yes.”
“Jam?”
“Yes.”
“Crust?”
“No.”
Silas made a sandwich and cut off the crust with a seriousness that made Mara turn away so he would not see her expression.