A coffee spot was still on the edge of the yellow dress, kept inside a hospital bag.
That dress was no longer clothes.
It was evidence.
My phone vibrated.
It was Ethan again.
Before he answered, a message came in from Mark.
I didn’t say “sorry.”
It didn’t say “we took it too far.”
It didn’t say “Vanessa lost control.”
It was a picture.
The image showed the broken cup next to Vanessa’s chair, the red truck lying on the floor and a part of the courtyard where Robert appeared with his arm extended to the fence.
Maybe Mark sent her because of her.
Maybe out of fear.
Perhaps because his silence began to weigh him more than his loyalty.
I didn’t care.
The social worker saw my expression change.
He asked me for permission to record the time of the message.
4:18 p.m.
I nodded.
