Reyes did not.

And it was not because he believed in Veronica’s gift; I doubt he did, then.

It was because he had known me for thirty years, and he knew the difference between a woman unhinged by loss and a woman who had spent three decades reading dying bodies and did not spook easily — and he decided, on nothing but the weight of that long knowing, to gamble his own credibility on my certainty.

That is what friendship is, when it is real.