Three steps away, voices low, Claire said, “I looked him up. I found someone matching his profile. O. Marsh, mid-thirties, city address.” She held up her phone. “There’s a local newspaper article, three years old. A man named Owen Marsh was questioned in connection with a stalking complaint.” Helen kept her face neutral. “Questioned,” she said. “Not charged.”
Helen looked back at Owen on the bench. He was looking at Daniel’s photograph, not touching it, just looking—the way you look at something you consider sacred and know you have no right to touch. Helen had been reading people across rooms and in doorways for most of her adult life. She trusted what she saw now. “He’s not dangerous,” she said quietly.