Victor and I exchanged a look. “Moved by whom?”

“We’re checking cameras.”

Anna shook her head slowly. “My bag was in that car. The court papers. Their birth certificates. Everything.”

“No,” I said. She looked at me. “You sent me the photo. Victor has the image. We’ll have certified copies by morning.” Her eyes filled, and for the first time that night she looked less like she might shatter.

Then Marie hurried over with a hotel blanket around her shoulders. “We found something in the garage footage.”

The image was grainy but clear enough: a woman in a black coat moving Anna’s sedan out of its spot twelve minutes before the blast. She kept her head down — but when she turned toward the camera, I saw her face, and I stopped breathing.