“I Need Help With My Daughter,” the Former Navy SEAL Said—She Smiled, “Then We Start With Her Hair”...

The silence that followed Grant's admission was broken only by the sound of Lila's ragged breathing and the steady rain against the windowpane.

Camille didn't hesitate. She stepped over to the front door, turned the lock, and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. She pulled the shade down, shutting out the streetlamp light and the passing eyes of downtown Wilmington.

"Grant," Camille said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring through her blood, "your daughter has spent nearly three months carrying a death threat inside her head."

Grant dropped to one knee, keeping a respectful five feet of distance between himself and Ranger, who remained anchored against Lila's side.

"Lila," Grant said, his voice raw, unvarnished, and completely devoid of the command tone he used elsewhere. "Look at me, sweetheart. Please."

Lila peeked out from behind her hands.

"Did Rebecca take Mommy?" Grant asked.

Lila nodded once. "She pushed Mommy into her car. The cigar man made me stay in the backseat of a black car until we got to our driveway. He said if I cried, he would send Daddy away to the deep ocean."

Grant's jaw set so hard a muscle twitched near his temple. The grief that had weighed his shoulders down for eighty-seven days didn't disappear; it transformed. The slump in his back vanished. The vague, unfocused look in his eyes sharpened into something lethal and calculating.

"She was carrying a folder," Lila added quietly. "Mommy was."

"What kind of folder, baby?" Grant asked softly.

"Blue," Lila whispered. "It had shiny silver clips. Mommy put it under my seat in the SUV before we stopped."

Grant stood up slowly, looking at Camille. "The police recovered Natalie's vehicle three days after she went missing. It was sitting in forty feet of water off River Road. They handed me her personal belongings in a plastic bag—her wallet, her phone, a water bottle. There was no blue folder."

"Because whoever sank the SUV either missed it," Camille said, "or they took it out before they pushed the car into the river."

"No," Grant said, his voice dropping an octave. "The police report stated the rear seat floorboards were covered in silt and debris from the riverbed. If something was wedged deep under the passenger frame, a diver grabbing obvious items might have overlooked it. Or..."

"Or someone in the department made sure it didn't end up on the evidence inventory," Camille finished for him.

Grant glanced at the salon clock. It was 9:15 AM. "I need to look at that wreckage. It’s being held at Miller’s Impound Lot off Route 421. The insurance company hasn't released it yet because the claim was delayed."

"You can't just walk in there with a flashlight and a crowbar, Grant," Camille pointed out, stepping back toward Lila and picking up the comb again. "Not if Rebecca Vale has eyes on you."

"She has more than eyes on me," Grant said, pull his phone from his pocket. "She was at my house yesterday. She brought dinner. She offered to help me sort through Natalie's personal papers."

A cold shudder went down Camille's spine. "She was hunting for that folder."

"And she realized Natalie must have hidden it somewhere before she died," Grant said. He stared at his phone screen. "Rebecca called me twenty minutes ago. She asked if I wanted her to pick Lila up from school today so I could take a rest."

Lila let out a small, breathless whimpering sound.

"Hey," Grant said, instantly dropping back down to her level. "Nobody is picking you up except me. Ever. Do you hear me, Lila? Nobody touches you."

Lila looked at Camille through the mirror. "Finish my hair?" she asked, her voice smaller than before.

Camille felt a swell of warmth in her chest. The child didn't trust the world, but somehow, in the span of an hour, the quiet salon owner with a pair of shears had become a safe harbor.

"I'm going to detangle every single strand, sweetheart," Camille promised, gently lifting a section of blonde hair. "Grant, you need to think. Why was Rebecca Vale hugging you in your kitchen before your wife died?"

Grant ran a hand over his face. "It was two weeks before the accident. I came home from a three-day training rotation in Fort Bragg. Rebecca was leaving as I walked in. She was crying. She threw her arms around me and said Natalie was stressed about work and needed me to take time off. I thought she was just being an attentive friend."

"She was establishing a presence," Camille said, deftly working a leave-in conditioner into a stubborn mat near Lila's crown. "If Natalie suspected Rebecca was up to something, Rebecca was making sure you thought she was just part of the family."

"Natalie worked as a senior auditor for the Port of Wilmington," Grant muttered, pacing the short distance between the shampoo chairs and the styling station. "She spent the last six months before her death working late. She told me the port was tracking discrepancies in heavy machinery imports from South America. She said it was just paperwork errors."

"Paperwork errors don't lead to a woman getting pulled out of her car on a dark road," Camille noted grimly.