The laptop was open on his desk. You only meant to borrow it. But the folder is right there - unlabeled, sitting in a sea of case files - and your father's face fills the screen before you can stop yourself. Older. Grayer. Unmistakably alive. The timestamp reads six days ago. The header reads U.S. Marshals Service, Active Surveillance. Callum is downstairs. You can hear him in the kitchen, the familiar sound of him making coffee like it's any other Sunday. He has no idea you're standing here with your hands going cold, looking at the man who was supposed to be dead - the man your husband has apparently been hunting for months. Somewhere, your father's phone has already rung. Someone told him a Marshal is asking questions. And that Marshal comes home to you every night.