He opened the folder and turned it around.

Inside were photographs.

Long-lens, timestamped, taken from across a street: her building.

Her front stoop.

Her husband coming out of the door in a jacket she had bought him.

And one, dated three days before her discharge, of a woman with Maya’s haircut going up the steps of Maya’s building with a set of keys in her hand.

Maya looked up.

“How long have you had these?”