All the smooth composure, all the rehearsed brightness, drained out of her in an instant, and left behind something small, and cornered, and afraid.

I reached into my pocket, and I took out the sleek black phone, and I tossed it onto the kitchen island between us.

It landed with a hard, flat clack against the stone.

Wendy stared at it as though it were a live snake.

“Where,” she whispered, “did you get that?”

“Our daughter showed me,” I said.

“The phone you told her never to touch.

The one you got scary about.