I knew that cane.
It had belonged to my grandmother.
After Evelyn died, it disappeared from the house.
My mother claimed it had been donated.
“Who has that?” Ruiz asked.
“I don’t know.”
But something in the image disturbed me more than the cane.
The woman’s posture.
The angle of her shoulders.
The familiar way she held her left hand close to her body.
My grandmother had done that after a childhood injury left two fingers stiff.
I zoomed in until the image blurred.
Evelyn had been buried twelve years ago.
I had stood beside her grave.
I had watched the casket descend.
And yet the woman at the florist counter had moved exactly as she did.
That evening, Daniel gave his statement to the police.
The hidden drive was sent for forensic review.
My father stopped calling.
My mother sent one final message.
There are things about this family you do not understand.
