THE FRIDAY TRAIN HOME

Iris Corvelli walked into Detective Shah's conference room wearing ordinary jeans, a green coat, and no yellow scarf. She was shorter than her father, with his dark eyes and the tense posture of someone who had spent six weeks practicing what to say and still feared getting the opening wrong.

Max stood so abruptly his chair scraped the floor.

Iris stopped at the doorway. "Please don't rush me."

He froze. "Okay."

Cece remained seated beside the wall. An attorney named Tessa Lin sat with Iris. Shah had explained that Iris was there voluntarily; she had been located and her safety assessed. Her preference not to contact family had been respected while investigators checked reports of intimidation. The missing-person notification would now be formally updated.

For a long moment father and daughter studied one another. Cece had imagined a reunion full of embraces. Instead there were two people who loved each other and didn't yet know whether love was safe enough to touch.

"I've been coming to the station," Max said.

"I know."

"Every Friday."

"I know, Dad. Marcus posted pictures."

Max looked down. "I thought if you came back and I wasn't there—"

"You'd miss your chance to decide where I went next?"

He flinched. "No. I wanted you to know somebody would meet you."

"You could have started by listening when I was standing in your office."

He nodded. No defense followed. Cece could see that the silence cost him. It still belonged to Iris to fill it, or not.

Iris sat across from him and turned toward Shah. "Can I tell them what we agreed I can share?"

"Yes," the detective said.

Iris had discovered unusual donation records in August. The company promised refrigerated shipments to North Harbor Children's Clinic and three other community programs. Inventory reports showed full loads leaving the primary warehouse, but the clinic reported missing or incomplete deliveries. When Iris requested a reconciliation, Warren Pike called her inexperienced and reassigned the discrepancy to an assistant who was then dismissed.

"I went to you," she told Max. "You said Warren had been loyal for thirteen years. I asked you to read the receiving reports yourself. You told me I was making a personal attack because I didn't like him."

"I remember."

"I do too."

A woman named Marisol Vega had been waiting outside the station on October fourth. She worked with an independent nonprofit that helped employees report retaliation. Iris had contacted her after someone photographed her apartment door and left a copy of her confidential report beneath it. Marisol connected her with Tessa, who helped her preserve records and report the suspected diversion to the relevant authorities.

"I didn't disappear because I thought it was exciting," Iris said. "I went somewhere I could sleep without wondering who was outside. I told the police I was safe but didn't want you contacted until I knew whether Warren could use you to find me."

Max looked sick. "I would never have given him your location."

"You gave him the complaint. He was the person I complained about."

There it was. A mistake that no bank account could purchase away.

"You're right," he said.

Iris blinked at the simplicity of it. "I don't need you to say that because Cecilia's here."

"I'm saying it because I did it."

The detective kept the discussion focused when Max began asking for names and addresses. Iris would not share her current residence. She had provided documents through counsel, including a record of threatening messages. Investigators were following leads involving Warren and the subcontractor; not every suspicious transaction had been proven to be a crime.

"What about the scarf?" Cece asked when Iris turned toward her. "We saw it in a van."

"It was in my work locker when I left," Iris said. "I left it because I'd brought too much. It had my name sewn inside the hem. Someone took it and put it where my father would see it. I didn't know until the detective showed me the picture."

Max gripped the chair arms. He didn't ask Iris to promise never to leave again. Instead he asked Shah whether the incident could be added to the report, then listened to the answer.

Iris looked at Cece. "You gave me a map during the snow outage. The station was full of angry people and you made sure I got a charger. You didn't ask who my father was."

"I didn't know," Cece admitted.

"That's what I liked."

Cece smiled. "Your dad says you called him an idiot."

"Repeatedly."

Max's mouth twitched. For one beat the family resemblance was impossible to miss. Then Iris's expression settled again.

"There is something worse," she told him. "One of the release forms approving the shipments has your electronic signature. Warren says you knew. I don't know whether you did. I need you to find out, even if the answer makes me hate you."

Max stared at her. "I'll give the investigators every file I have."

"That isn't enough. Don't pick which files make you look good."

"I won't."

She studied him. "I want to believe you. I'm not there yet."

The meeting lasted another hour. Max learned he could send messages through Tessa, but Iris might not answer. He agreed not to visit her workplace or ask Marcus to watch her. She declined his offer to drive her home. As she stood, he rose too, slowly this time.

"I kept your ticket," he said.

"The one with the terrible handwriting?"

"You were nine."

"I was a gifted nine-year-old."

"You were late to every train."

She almost smiled. "You were late to my graduation."

The smile vanished. He looked at her and said, "I know. I'm sorry."

She walked out with her attorney. There was no hug, but she glanced back once from the doorway. Max sat down afterward and pressed both hands over his face.

Cece waited. When he could look at her, she said, "You got to hear her. Now do the part that doesn't make a good photograph."

"What part?"

"Change something when she's not looking."

He nodded. On the ride back to Hawthorne, Max called his lawyer and instructed her to release the full authorization records to the independent investigators. The call lasted eight minutes. At the end, the lawyer asked him one question.