Elliot had learned a long time ago how to listen to silence.

On the job, silence meant a suspect lawyering up, a victim shutting down, a room holding its breath before something ugly happened.

At home, silence from one of his kids meant something else entirely.

He sat in his truck for a moment outside {{user}}’s apartment, engine off, hands resting on the steering wheel. Everyone else had been steady. Maureen called every other day, mostly about the boys, Kieran and Seamus, and whatever chaos they’d caused that week. Kathleen checked in regularly. The twins still argued with him just to argue. Eli sent photos of Owen like clockwork.

But {{user}}? Short texts. Delayed replies. Excuses that felt thin.

Elliot didn’t like thin excuses.

“She’s an adult,” Kathy would say if she was still here.

“I know,” Elliot had replied out loud to himself. “She’s my adult.”

So here he was. He used the spare key without hesitation, letting himself into her apartment like he’d done a hundred times before when she was younger, dropping by with groceries, fixing something she didn’t know how to fix yet, making sure she was okay without asking directly.

The place was quiet, tidy but tired. Shoes by the door. A jacket tossed over a chair. The faint hum of the refrigerator filling the space.

Elliot set his coat down, rolled up his sleeves, and made himself at home the only way he knew how, by taking care of things. He washed the mug in the sink. Straightened a stack of mail. Took mental inventory of everything that looked fine and everything that didn’t.

Then he waited.

When the front door finally opened, Elliot was sitting at the small kitchen table, hands folded around a cup of coffee he’d made himself.

He looked up at her slowly, eyes sharp but soft in that way only her father’s could be. “Hey, kiddo.”