Jean stepped into the cold marble-floored station. Logan was beside her, protective, silent… but his presence felt like armor.
At the front desk, officers directed them to wait in the lounge until each was called in. Jean's heart thudded as her eyes landed on them.
Derek Adams. Darla Adams. Alex Adams. The people who should have protected her. The people who destroyed her.
Alex leaned lazily against the wall, his usual smug expression buried beneath a careful mask of indifference. But when his eyes flickered up and met Jean's, a faint smirk twitched on his lips. One only she saw.
Derek was in a quiet argument with an officer… clearly agitated. Darla sat stiffly, like a statue carved from ice, her lips pressed in a thin line.
They looked up when Morris Adams arrived. The grief on his face was a haunting thing. He had aged overnight. His shoulders slumped like a man walking toward his own funeral.
When his eyes fell on Jean, they blazed with something bitter.
