Ik heb een maand lang elke zondag bij het graf van mijn dochter gehuild. Toen zei de beheerder van de begraafplaats tegen me: ‘Huil alsjeblieft niet. Je kent niet de hele waarheid over je dochter.’

“What did Jordan say to her?”

“She told me he said if she accepted, she could pay for her own car, insurance, and college.”

I gripped the back of a chair. “And you told her?”

“To wait. To bring you in so we could talk together.”

“Maya never asked me.”

“I think she wanted to,” Ms. Alvarez said. “But she was afraid you’d explain him again.”

That landed harder than I expected.

“And you told her?”

***

I drove home, pulled my recipe binder from the pantry, and found the phone account password Jordan had mocked as “grandma tech.”

Soon, I had Maya’s call log. I hadn’t disconnected her number yet.

There was one call from Jordan.

Six minutes.

The same time Sadie said Maya ran to her car.

Six minutes before the first emergency call.

There was one call from Jordan.

***

When Jordan came home, the call log and sketchbook were on the table.

He stopped. “What’s this?”

“Did you call Maya that night?”

“No.”

I slid the call log forward. “Try again.”

His jaw tightened. “You went into the account?”

“Did you call Maya that night?”

“It’s our account.”