That sentence did something to her.
Not healing.
Not yet.
But it gave her a place to stand.
By midmorning, Arthur had made copies of everything we had.
Photos.
Time stamps.
Voicemail.
Hospital paperwork.
My handwritten notes.
He did not rush.
He did not perform outrage.
He moved like a man setting stones in a foundation.
At 10:17 a.m., Marcus called again.
Arthur looked at the screen and asked Maya, “Do you want to answer?”
She shook her head.
So Arthur let it ring.
At 10:19, Celeste called.
At 10:22, Marcus’s mother called.
At 10:26, a number I did not recognize called twice.
Arthur wrote every time down.
The Vanguards were not worried yet.
They were irritated.
There is a difference.
I knew that difference from emergency rooms.
A guilty person panics.
An entitled person negotiates with reality like it is a waiter who brought the wrong meal.
By noon, Marcus sent a text.
