A cart rolling.
A monitor beeping.
Someone laughing too loudly near the vending machines because the world is cruel enough to continue while yours is splitting open.
Then the officer showed him one photo.
Not the children.
Not anything graphic.
Just the door.
Just the deadbolt.
Just the place where a six-year-old had learned that crying did not open locks.
The second officer arrived later with a sealed evidence bag.
Inside was Reena’s old phone.
“She left it charging in the kitchen,” he said. “We’re waiting on full authorization, but the lock screen still showed messages.”
Peter looked at the phone through plastic.
It was ordinary.
That almost made it worse.
A cracked corner.
A faded case.
A device someone carried to the grocery store, to the couch, to bed.
The officer said there were messages with dates.
