His throat tightened as he scrolled through the call history.

“David Vance,” Mark read out loud, his voice flat.

“Rachel Miller.

Who is Arthur?”

“People who remember what you seem to have forgotten,” I said.

Mark walked three heavy steps into the kitchen and slammed the small phone down on the edge of the quartz counter.

The plastic casing split open, and the screen fractured into a web of white lines.

He didn’t look down at the broken glass.