By two o’clock that afternoon, I had laid out my monthly phone bills and printed call logs across the kitchen table next to the certified state report.

Evan brought my red spiral notebook from the desk and set it beside my mug of cold black coffee.

“Pull up the itemized phone log for December twenty-fourth,” Evan said.

I opened the detailed PDF on my laptop and scrolled down to the afternoon timestamps.

My sweet potato dish had gone into our oven at three o’clock on Christmas Eve.

Caroline had texted me at three fifteen asking whether I was bringing extra serving spoons for the side dishes.