“An hour before,” Sloan said.

“He spent forty minutes in the bay with a high-pressure hose, focusing entirely on the rear utility gate.”

She looked at her book, though I knew she did not need to.

“He thought he could wash away the copper residue,” she said.

“But the seams under the liner were already saturated.”

“Is she alive?” I asked.

The question had been sitting in my chest for days, a cold, hard knot.

Sloan did not answer immediately.