"Who sent you that photo?"
Julian's voice is low, but it cuts straight through me. I keep staring at my phone for one more second before I turn the screen toward him. The old picture of the two cribs fills the dark room. The line under it still burns. You sang to him every night after Mary stopped. He never forgot your voice.
Julian looks at it, then at the road, then back at me. "Another unknown number?" "Yes." His jaw tightens. "This is how they keep pulling you. One message at a time."
I want to argue with him, but I cannot. Because he is right. Every step tonight has been pushed by someone hiding behind a screen, a note, a file, or a lie. And still I follow. Because every time I stop, someone else tells my story for me.
My phone buzzes again.
A new message.
East entrance. Come a
