One hand rose and touched my hair, light as anything.

“You really didn’t get them,” she whispered.

Not quite a question — the sound of a story she’d believed for months coming apart.

I lifted my head and took out my phone and opened the files Devlin had just restored, and I held the screen where she could see it.

Six missed calls, stamped across three days in April.

Three voicemails, never played.

And underneath them, the last message, sent on the twelfth of May: