“I have to go to work,” I said. “I can’t sit here anymore. I have to stay busy.”

Tyler rubbed the back of his neck, like Taylor would when he was upset or nervous. “I’ll let you know the moment I hear something.”

“Are you going back out?” I asked.

“I’m not sure they’ll let me. I might have punched one or two people before they removed me from the area.”

“He’s your brother. They’ll understand.”

Tyler’s eyes glossed over, and his bottom lip trembled. His head fell forward, and Ellison touched his shoulder, whispering words of comfort.

I made my way out to the parking lot, moving in slow motion.

The drive to the Bucksaw was a blur. I had no thoughts. I didn’t cry. Everything was automatic—breathing, braking, turning.

My parking spot was taken, so I parked elsewhere, but by the time I stepped onto the tiles of the dining area, I had forgotten where.

I shuffled across the floor in the same clothes I’d worn the day before, my apron still tied around my waist.

“Dear Jesus,” Phaedra said, rushing over and hooking her arm behind me. She escorted me to the kitchen. “Any word?”

Kirby burst through the swinging doors, covering her mouth when she saw me. Chuck, Hector, and Pete stopped what they were doing and stared.

“Nothing. They forced Tyler to … they called off the search just after midnight. They headed out again this morning.”

“Falyn,” Kirby said, “have you slept?”

I shook my head.

“All right. Kirby, there’s a bottle of pills in my bag, point five milligrams. Bring it upstairs. C’mon, baby girl, you’ve got to sleep.”

I slinked out of Phaedra’s grip. “I can’t. I have to work. I have to stay busy.”

Chuck shook his head. “Honey, you’re in no state to wait tables.”

“Then Kirby and I can trade for the day.” I pleaded with Kirby with my eyes.

Kirby waited for Phaedra’s approval.

“Falyn—” Phaedra began.

“Please!” I screamed, closing my eyes. “Please. Just let me work. I can’t go upstairs and lie in that bed alone, knowing he’s out there somewhere.”

Chuck nodded to his wife, and then she dipped her head.

“All right. Kirby, you’re on server duty. I’ll help.”

Kirby pushed through the double doors, going straight over to the tables. I tended to the hostess station, bussing tables and cleaning the floor between customers.

A family came in—a father with tattoo sleeves on both arms, the mother with no tattoos, and two girls and a boy, all three kids under six. The youngest, maybe six months, was snuggled against his mother in a Boba Wrap as he slept, and I choked back the unexpected emotions that seeing him induced.