The word landed too softly for the performance he’d planned. His expression faltered — less than a second. A tightening at the jaw. A blink that came too soon.

A shallow breath through the nose. Doctors notice small changes, because small changes are how bodies tell the truth before mouths catch up.

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

My phone buzzed inside the pocket of my white coat. I didn’t reach for it right away. That was another thing medicine had taught me: not every alarm is yours, and not every noise deserves your hand.

When I finally pulled it out, the message was from Kenneth Boyd. My attorney. Stamped 9:17 a.m.