THE FRIDAY TRAIN HOME

Cece's mother answered the front door with an oven mitt and the expression of a woman who considered punctuality a moral position.

"You are forty minutes late," Esther Rowan announced.

"I know. I'm trying to give you a reason to use the phrase 'when I was your age.'"

"When I was your age, I also made bad jokes. Come eat."

Their house was small, built around a kitchen her father had refinished twice because he never trusted the first version of anything. A photograph of him in a train conductor's cap hung beside the refrigerator. In another, he was holding seven-year-old Cece upside down while she laughed so hard her braids pointed toward the grass.

Esther noticed her daughter's wet coat. "What happened at work?"

Cece told her about the man on the bench, the scarf, the police, and the demolition order. She left out the rumor about the wrench. It seemed unfair to make a stranger responsible for an unverified story in her mother's kitchen.

Esther listened without interrupting. "A daughter can need distance and still be in danger," she said at last. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"I didn't say they were."

"You keep making that face you make when you have a problem to solve. People aren't relay boxes, Cecilia."

"Everybody's a critic."

"Your father would be worse. He'd tell you to eat first and then ask whether you took a photograph of the license plate."

Cece smiled despite herself. "I let the officer do that part."

The next morning, she arrived at Hawthorne thirty minutes early. Dale had found three separate access records for the baggage entrance. Two showed the same van on Wednesdays. The third identified Friday's contractor as Northline; the internal work order listed temporary refrigeration equipment belonging to Corvelli.

"Looks official," Dale said. "Except this building hasn't had refrigeration since they took out the old snack kiosk."

"Has the regional office answered?"

"They've asked the contractor to suspend clearance while they verify the equipment. The records are preserved. Nobody's going inside until an inspector and the police decide what belongs to whom."

Cece felt relief, then embarrassment that she had expected a more cinematic answer. Paperwork often saved more evidence than heroic trespassing.

At ten, Max came through the door carrying two coffees. He held one out to Cece, then caught himself. "Do you drink coffee?"

"Only when a customer tries to repair my life with a cup."

"I haven't offered to repair it."

"Excellent start. Medium, one milk, please."

He had brought black. She took it anyway, added milk from the counter, and told him about the suspended clearance. Marcus stood near the entrance, hands visible, watching the street. His presence made commuters glance up from their phones.

"Your escort is scaring the eight-fifteen regulars," Cece said.

Max looked over. "Marcus. Wait in the car."

Marcus hesitated. "Sir—"

"The station has cameras and officers. Wait in the car."

"I don't need you rearranging your security on my account," Cece said after Marcus left.

"You said the passengers were uncomfortable."

"I was giving you information, not a command."

He gave her a look. "Most people I know would prefer to give me commands and pretend they're information."

They drank coffee against the windows. Max told her Iris had taken an entry-level job in Corvelli's compliance department against his wishes. She wanted a job that wasn't handed to her because of her name; he'd made the application process harder than it needed to be, thinking that would prove he respected her independence.

"Did it?" Cece asked.

"She called me an idiot."

"She sounds observant."

His laugh came so unexpectedly that Dale emerged from his office to see who had broken something.

The police called just after noon. The van was leased by a subcontractor named Meridian Cold Transit, which serviced both Corvelli warehouses and several independent clinics. It had been located in a public lot. The driver had agreed to an interview. He claimed someone placed the scarf in a bin of discarded uniforms and he hadn't noticed it caught in the door. Police had recovered it and would verify ownership.

"They could have taken it from her," Max said when he hung up.

"They could have," Cece replied. "They could also have found it in a locker. We don't know yet."

"I hate that sentence."

"It keeps us from making up a worse one."

At 2:30 a regional facilities manager, Dana Cho, arrived with an inspector and a transit officer. Cece remained behind the counter while the authorized team entered the baggage building. Dale joined them as the station representative, wearing an orange vest that made him resemble a disappointed traffic cone.

They emerged forty minutes later with photographs and an inventory, not the dramatic handcuffs Cece half expected. The supposedly empty room had held portable cold-storage cabinets, a stack of shipping documents, and a compact scanner connected to an unplugged laptop. All bore Corvelli asset tags. No person was inside. There was no indication Iris had been held there.

"That's good," Max said quietly.

"It is," Cece agreed.

Dana explained that the equipment would stay secured while ownership and work orders were checked. She could share only the station-related findings, not confidential material discovered inside a contractor's cabinets. Cece appreciated the distinction even as it frustrated her.

Then Dale showed her something he had found without touching the stored equipment: a printed routing board mounted on the interior wall. Three columns listed scheduled service movements to the old freight spur. A four-digit movement code appeared every Wednesday. Friday had a handwritten addition.

4:17 — HOLD FOR RETURN.

"That isn't a passenger train instruction," Cece said.

"No," Dale agreed. "And our dispatch office never issued it."

Max stared at the photograph. "Iris used to say whoever could change a route could change a story. I told her that was poetic nonsense."

"Maybe ask what she meant when you see her," Cece said.

Dale's office phone rang. He listened, then covered the mouthpiece. "Regional wants all of this referred to investigators. They've found an access account in our system created by somebody who left the contractor two years ago."

"Whose?" Cece asked.

Dale looked toward Max. "The authorization says it came from Warren Pike's corporate office."

Max did not reach for a weapon. He reached for his phone, stopped, and set it face down on the counter.

"I gave Warren control of the dispatch contracts," he said. "And Iris warned me about the access accounts."