“I’m getting off at the very first port.

I swear to God, Hannah, I’m going to make this right.”

He hung up, leaving me in the quiet kitchen with the low hum of the refrigerator.

At eleven thirty that morning, Detective Rebecca pulled her gray sedan into the police station lot and walked me through the side entrance into a small interview room.

The room had beige cinderblock walls, two metal folding chairs, and a square Formica table bolted to the linoleum floor.

Rebecca set her spiral notebook on the table, tapped the wire spine against her chin, and took a clear plastic evidence bag out of her leather briefcase.