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She looks pale. Scared. “I'm sorry.”

The words stop me. “What?”

“I should've gotten here sooner. I told her eight minutes and then parking⁠—”

“No.”

Her mouth closes.

“This isn't on you.”

Her eyes fill. “I asked her to come.”

“Violet.”

She looks at me.

“This isn't on you.” I don't know if I'm saying it for her or myself. Probably both.

My gaze moves around the room.

A few drops of blood sit near the sink. A smear along the edge of the counter.

My stomach turns cold. “Is that hers?”

“We don't know.”

I crouch and look, but don’t touch.

Violet wraps her arms around herself. “She wouldn't just go with him.”

“No.”

I know that without thinking. Callie wouldn't go quietly anywhere.

I stand. “Was anything broken?”

“What?”

“Anything knocked over? Damaged?”

Violet looks around. “One of the trash cans by the door was on its side when I came in.”

“Anything else?”

“I don't know.”

I look at the blood again, then at the door.

She fought.

Of course she fucking fought.

My phone vibrates.

I pull it out.

Bishop: Route. Outside.