He finally looked at Sydney, lifting his gaze in time to see hers fall and her cheeks blanch.

Oh, no, he didn’t mean . . . His words replayed in his mind. The part about her coming to Maine, the search for her father. And the treehouse—Syd had been the one to encourage him to bring Maggie out there tonight.

“No, no, I’m not blaming you. The way that sounded, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” she whispered.

Did she, though? Because she was backing away, hurt so clear in her eyes it was enough to shatter him entirely.

“She’s going to be here awhile. I’ll go back to the house.” Sydney started to turn. “I’ll get some things to make her more comfortable when she wakes up. I’ve still got your keys.”

Because he’d gone in the ambulance and Lilian had been too upset to drive. “Syd—”

But she was already walking away. He needed to follow, undo the damage he’d just done.

No, he needed to stay. They’d be taking Maggie back for surgery any minute.

But Sydney . . .

“Neil.” Lilian’s voice rose over the whoosh of the revolving door. “Dr. Lakeman needs to talk to us.”

The night sky was pitch-black, as was the house in front of her. No lights in the windows. Just silence, stillness, save the rumble of the truck’s engine.

Until she turned the key, and then there wasn’t even that. She pulled the fob from the ignition and her hand dropped into her lap. Shouldn’t her eyes be wet with tears in this moment? Or had she cried all of them earlier today, first on the way home from Tate Carter’s and then at the treehouse?

She stared at the house outside the windshield—all shadows at nearly ten o’clock at night. Home.

No, not her home. It couldn’t be, no matter how deeply she longed for it.

Not just because she wasn’t Maggie’s granddaughter. Nor only because there’d been a horrible, awful truth behind Neil’s words back at the hospital, however much he hadn’t meant to cast any blame.

But because once Maggie finally knew the truth—about Tate, about Sydney—it would cause her even more pain. And Sydney’s presence would only make things worse, a constant reminder that Maggie still hadn’t found the real Cynthia Muir. That somewhere out there, there was still a lost sheep . . .

And it was the last thing Maggie needed now. When she made it through surgery—because she would, she had to—she’d have a journey of recovery in front of her. That doctor had said it could take longer to recover from an emergency angioplasty than an elective one. She’d be in the hospital for several days, might not feel up to speed again for weeks. No way was Sydney going to let herself make it any harder for her.

So she needed to leave. Before she brought any more hurt to the Muir family.