She just unclipped a paper clip from a stack of printed white sheets.

“People who are being forced don’t usually send thirty-two text messages a day about logistics,” she said, sliding the first page across the table to me.

I picked up the paper and shifted in the chair.

The top line was dated Tuesday afternoon at two fourteen, from Derek’s prepaid number to Patricia’s cell phone.

She cries every night and I can’t take it anymore, Derek had typed.

Below it, Patricia’s reply appeared four minutes later.