The last guest leaves at nine-thirty.
It's Chen. Of course it is. She's the kind of person who stays until the room is empty—not out of obligation, but instinct. She shakes Damien's hand, then turns to me and, unexpectedly, briefly, hugs me. Two seconds. No more. She steps back, straightens her jacket like it didn't happen.
"Good wedding," she says.
"Good case," I reply.
Something flickers across her face—something close to moved, which is as much as Chen ever allows in public.
"Take care of each other."
Then she's gone. Down the porch steps. Into the December dark.
Damien closes the door.
The farmhouse goes quiet.
Not empty quiet—full quiet. The kind that comes after a house has held too many voices, too much warmth. Glasses on the counter. Dishes stacked by the sink. A single yellow flower petal in the hallway from Hope's basket.
