I was running warm water over Emma’s yellow sweatshirt, trying to scrub out the sticky syrup.

“My mother sent this before anybody started washing dishes,” I said.

“Look at the message column,” Mark said.

I ran my index finger across the row.

The phone company had supplied the exact text of the message, letter for letter.

The words sat there in plain black type.

My stomach cramped so hard I had to lean forward over the desk.

My mother had typed out a direct order.