“Do not respond yet,” the deputy said. His voice had changed. Lower. Sharper.

Before I could speak, the ER entrance doors slid open down the hall. A young intake nurse came rushing toward Trauma Two with a clear plastic belongings bag in both hands.

Inside were Emily’s keys. One cracked phone. A folded receipt from a gas station, time-stamped 10:27 p.m.

At the bottom of the bag was another piece of white fabric. Same cotton. Same rough tear. Same navy stitching.

But this piece had a seam that didn’t match a dress shirt.

Alan went still.