She’s in her mid-forties, with short, dark hair, in comfortable, practical clothes worn by someone who has spent over twenty years wrangling pre-teens in a classroom. There’s a tiredness to her, but not the kind that dulls her—more like she’s spent her life always two steps ahead, ready for whatever nonsense is about to come her way.

She looks us over, her gaze sharp despite the warmth in her expression. “Took you all long enough,” she muses.

Orion tenses. “You knew we were coming?”

Cassie chuckles, stepping aside to let us in. “After your last visit, I figured it was just a matter of time, I just didn’t expect so many people.” Her eyes land on Bennett for a moment, something flickering across her expression. Recognition? Hesitation? It’s gone before I can pin it down. Then she turns her gaze to me.

Then she turns her gaze to me. There’s an added layer in her expression. Almost like… regret.

I shift my weight, uneasy under her scrutiny.

“Don’t forget, shoes off.” She points to the welcome mat.

I finally read the words: Shoes off, snacks welcome.

Celeste grins. “I like her already.”

Cassie winks at her, then steps aside. “Come in, then. I imagine you all have a lot of questions.”

She has no idea.

As Mo steps over the threshold she tells Cassie, “We need to talk.”

Nodding with a sigh Cassie leads us to the den as she singles me out, “Theo, why don’t you come help me in the kitchen to get a drink for everyone.” Looking around the room she asks “Does anyone have any requests or is everyone okay with Strawberry Mint-infused water?”

There’s a collective shrug from the group as I follow Cassie into the kitchen.

The kitchen is exactly what I expected to see.

Warm, cluttered, homey.

Mismatched mugs hang from hooks near the sink, and the smell of cinnamon lingers in the air. It’s lived-in, a space that has seen countless mornings of hurried breakfasts and late-night cups of tea. Cassie moves to the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of infused water and setting it on the counter.

For a moment, she just looks at me.

Then, softly, she says, “I’m sorry.”

I blink. “For what?”

“For not speaking up,” she says. “After your dad died. After Aubrey made sure people stopped asking questions. I should have acted. I should have spoken up.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. I tighten my grip on the mug, swallowing around the lump in my throat. I never allowed myself to think about it too much—the silence that followed my dad’s death. How quickly everyone had moved on. Had I been fooling myself all these years? Had there been people who knew but were too afraid to speak?

“You knew something was wrong?”