I stepped close to her and dropped my voice to something only she could hear.
“If you were so worried, why did twenty minutes pass between the moment he went down in your living room and the moment anyone called for help?” She flinched.
“If you were so worried, why is there a call from you to him at seven minutes past ten tonight, deleted from your phone, that pulled him out of the house?” Her breath snagged.
I stayed where I was.
The twenty minutes was the thing that told me the most, and I let her see that I knew it.
A frightened woman whose lover collapses in front of her calls for help at once — her hands shake, she fumbles the phone, but she calls, because terror moves fast.