Five years of cookies, conversations, borrowed tools, and quiet favors had ended without a goodbye to Liam.

I sat at the kitchen table with a yellow notepad and wrote down everything I could remember: the dates of Evelyn’s questions, the first time she met us, the money she’d lent, and every comment that had seemed harmless until now.

I was halfway down the second page when an unknown number appeared on my phone.

My mother told me what happened yesterday.

We should talk.

I stared at the message, then typed: Who is this?