One clear morning I stood in my kitchen and made coffee.

Sunlight poured across the counter.

The apartment was quiet except for birds outside the window.

My phone rang, and I saw an unfamiliar number.

For a second, I felt the old impulse to answer immediately, to make sure nobody was angry.

Then I let it go to voicemail.

I poured my coffee and carried it onto the balcony.

At 12:07 a.m. on that terrible night, Lorraine had believed she was sealing my fate.