A detective in a wrinkled suit came in with a mug that used to be white. He asked questions that tasted like someone else’s closing argument. Rafael answered. Border night. A wrong truck. A wrong man. Elena’s voice on a radio telling him where the ditch was. No one dead. No one shot. A bad decision that had not turned into a felony. The detective looked at the log, at the time stamps, at the footage. His eyebrows climbed. The line he thought he was going to draw wobbled.
“Why now?” he asked finally.
Emilia folded her hands. “Because a judge’s nephew wants to look useful.”
The lieutenant knocked and slid inside. He murmured to the detective. A message from the examiner’s office. Another from the DA’s deputy, who had learned to pick her moments. The detective stared at the wall for a long
