The deputy looked at me. Alan looked at the phone.

I opened it.

The photo was dark and crooked, taken from close to the floor. It showed Daniel’s kitchen. I knew the cabinets because I’d helped install two of them when they moved in.

One drawer was open. A chair was overturned. A man’s white shirt lay across the floor with one sleeve missing.

And in the far corner of the frame, half hidden by the kitchen island, was Daniel’s phone. Not Emily’s. Daniel’s. Lit up with a message thread.

The visible line read: She knows. Finish it tonight.