They went on Friday morning.
The same route as the last time — Kendrick driving, Damian in the passenger seat, the city moving past the windows with its ordinary indifference. The same east-facing light. The same Walker residence at the end of the same street.
But different.
Damian felt the difference in the specific quality of his own stillness. The last time he'd come here he'd been waiting in a room, instructed to be present but not in the conversation. This time Kendrick had said *come with me. Into the room.* And Damian had said yes.
He was carrying case seven.
Not the physical file — that was with Sandra. He was carrying the specific knowledge of it. The handwritten notes. The death certificate. *Cecelia Monroe. Age 24.*
He was also carrying something else.
Isabelle Monroe.
He'd asked Alehandra to hold off on contacting her until after this conversation. He wanted to know if Richard knew his sister existed before anyone else moved.
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