Chapter 5: The Evidence Megan Refuses To Throw Away
The phone vibrated again on the kitchen counter.
Abigail flinched before she looked at it. The movement was small, but it made the loose clip at the back of her hair shift another inch toward falling. She reached for the phone, then stopped with her hand suspended above it.
I watched the screen light the underside of her fingers.
The notification was from the same account that had appeared earlier, a name made of letters and numbers instead of a person’s name. Beneath it was a short request and a deadline: respond by midnight. The preview did not explain what the response was supposed to contain. It only showed enough to make Abigail press the phone facedown.
I kept my hands on the counter.
The facts were simple. A message had arrived. Abigail had reacted before reading it. The account had contacted her more than once. Everything beyond that was something I could be wrong about.
I took a picture of the screen before it went dark.
Abigail saw me. Her shoulders pulled tight, and she crossed the kitchen in two quick steps. She snatched up the phone and turned away, holding it against her chest. Her other hand covered the camera lens.
I did not reach for her.
For several seconds, neither of us moved. The refrigerator hummed behind me. Somewhere outside, a car passed over wet pavement, its tires making a soft, steady hiss.
Abigail opened the message. Her face changed as she read it—not surprise, not grief, but the blank stillness she had worn in the car. She scrolled once, then again. Her thumb stopped near a small attachment icon.
She locked the phone.
On the table lay the paper towel where I had placed the first clue after we came inside: a narrow strip of printed paper that had been folded into the pocket of her jacket. The ink was smudged where someone’s hand had gotten it wet, but a time and a partial name remained visible. I had not decided what it meant. I had only decided that it existed.
Abigail picked up the paper towel and held it over the trash.
I stood before I could think better of it.
She looked at me. The paper stayed above the open bin.
I shook my head once.
Her jaw tightened. She tore the paper towel in half, not the strip itself, and dropped one piece into the trash. The other piece remained pinched between her fingers. It was the part with the time on it.
That was her answer. She would let me keep something, but not everything.
I pulled a clean envelope from the drawer where we kept spare batteries and takeout menus. I wrote the date and the time on its front, then slid the remaining strip inside. I added the photograph from my phone and saved a second copy to an old tablet that stayed unplugged in the cabinet. I did not name the folder after Abigail. I used only the date.
She watched each step. When I finished, she pointed toward the tablet, then toward the hallway. Her eyes moved to the front door.
She was afraid someone might see it.
I carried the envelope and tablet to the locked drawer in the bedroom desk, but I left the key on the kitchen counter where she could see it. Then I placed my phone beside it, screen up. If another message came, she would not have to ask me to show her. She could take the phone herself.
The clock above the stove clicked past 10:30.
A school notification appeared on Abigail’s phone before she could put it away. The attendance reminder showed tomorrow’s first-period start time and a request for a parent response before 7:15 in the morning. Her backpack sat by the door, still zipped, one strap damp from the rain.
She looked at the backpack, then at the dark window.
I moved it away from the door and set it beside the table. I put my keys next to it. After a moment, Abigail took one of the spare keys from the bowl and placed it in the outside pocket of her bag.
That became the plan without either of us saying it: the bag would stay with her, the key would stay accessible, and the phone would remain between us instead of hidden in a room.
She opened the message again. The midnight deadline glowed against her face.
At 10:42, the account sent another notification.
This time, Abigail did not touch the screen. She only slid the phone toward me, then turned the lock on the bedroom drawer until it clicked.
May you like
The evidence was safe for the moment.
The message was not.
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