My brows draw in as I flip open the funeral program for Remi’s mom. The first page has her obituary but only says she died unexpectedly in her home. It gives the same date as the front, a match to the last time I heard from Remi. As I scan through the rest, my attention snags at the bottom.

Rebecca is survived by her husband, Daniel, and daughter, Remi Sinner.

Sinner. Sinner. Sinner.

Not Saint, but Remi Sinner. The name cinches my chest tight, thoughts racing.

“Please let us know what we can do, Chief,” the woman says. My head jerks up as she and Remi’s stepdad reappear. “We’re all here for you, whatever you need.”

He nods. “Thank you, Julie. I’ll be back next week.” He gestures to the vases. “Take a bouquet for the front desk, would you? They posted my address at the coffee shop, and people keep stopping by with food and flowers. Rebecca would have wanted them to be enjoyed.”

“Yes, sir.” Her mouth tilts in apology, and then she gives me the same look as she grabs flowers from beside me.

With a sigh, he shuts the door behind her and turns his attention on me, noting the program still in my hand.

“Is Remi okay?” I clear my throat, swallow through the dryness and anxiety curling through me. “I haven’t heard from her since the day her mom died. Is she here?”

The man’s jaw tics. “She’s not here.” She’s not. “I was kinda hoping you’d know something about where she went.” Where she went. “I’m Daniel, by the way.”

“Foster.”

I shake his hand on autopilot when he offers it, his grip firmer than necessary. Then he continues, “My wife and her daughter weren’t the closest, but I never thought Remi was capable…” His head shakes when he pauses, and I need him to fucking finish. “You seem like a good kid, Foster, so I’m just going to lay it out for you. Remi took off the day Rebecca passed with a man named Roman Moore. No one’s heard from her since.”

Roman. Her friend. The guy from the town square.

My insides twist, not only jealousy driving into me, but a biting sensation I’ve only felt twice in my life shoots beneath my skin. Once when my old man hugged the son he loved in front of me, and again when my mom pulled a knife on the son he didn’t.

“Took off.” I breathe, refusing to jump to conclusions, but it aches already. “What does that mean?”