Diana opened her iPad. I watched her eyes track the footage, saw her jaw clench as the clear audio of David’s line hissed out of the speakers.

“It’s airtight,” she said, looking up. “Multiple angles. Perfect audio. Maya, this is monstrous.”

“What are they doing right now?” I asked the ceiling.

Diana pulled up the live feed. “Eating. They opened your vintage Bordeaux. They think you ran off to lick your wounds.”

I looked at my left hand. I knew the anatomy under the plaster — the crushed metacarpals, the extensor tendons that might be severed, the web of nerves that might never fully regenerate.

My tears hardened into a flat, steady glare.