Maya folded over her stomach and made a sound that came from somewhere younger than twenty-six.
“He knew,” she whispered.
Then her face broke.
Arthur did not speak for five seconds.
When he did, his voice was so quiet it made the room feel smaller.
“Write down the time of that voicemail.”
I picked up the pen.
5:06 a.m.
I wrote Marcus’s name beside it.
Arthur said, “Now ask Maya one thing before you leave.”
I looked at my daughter.
She looked back at me as if the answer might decide whether the rest of her life would be pain or proof.
“What?” I asked him.
“Ask her if Celeste touched her phone before she left.”
Maya went very still.
That was the first moment I saw terror turn into memory.
“She did,” Maya whispered. “When I was on the floor. I thought she was just moving it away from me.”
