I’m downstairs. We need to talk.

Kenneth didn’t interrupt my workday for feelings. He didn’t chase rumors, send dramatic texts, or mistake suspicion for fact. He dealt in documents. Petitions.

Affidavits. Certified copies. Lab reports. Things with signatures and dates and seals — things Connor couldn’t flatter and Melinda couldn’t soften with tears.

My thumb hovered over the screen, and Connor saw the pause.

“Bad news?” There was pleasure in it. Not concern. Pleasure.

I put the phone back in my pocket. “No.” Then I looked straight at him. “Not for me.”