By 1:26 a.m., the cracked phone from Emily’s belongings was turned over for download, after the proper consent forms were signed.

People think justice begins with a dramatic confession. It rarely does. Most of the time it begins with a tired nurse writing the correct time on the correct line.

Emily drifted in and out while the night worked around her. Every few minutes she’d tense, as if she heard footsteps that weren’t there. Every time, I told her the same thing.

“You’re safe. He doesn’t know.”

At 2:02 a.m., Alan pulled me into the hall. He looked older than he had when I walked in.

“She needs imaging,” he said. “We have to be careful moving her.”