Forty-five minutes later, while Carter walked me through David’s false identity, his financial routes, and the surveillance logs from the house, my phone buzzed across the metal table.
Mom’s face flashed on the screen.
The room went dead still.
I had left the phone facedown. Now her contact photo glowed up at me, the one from last Christmas, her smiling beside the tree in the living room.
“Don’t answer it,” Dad said immediately.
Carter held up a hand.
“Wait. This could be useful.”
He pulled a cable from his equipment case and connected my phone to his laptop.
“Emma, answer it. Speaker on. Let me record it.”
My hand was shaking when I lifted the phone.
Video call.
Not just voice.
I accepted it and angled the screen so Carter’s system could capture the feed.
Mom’s face filled the display.
She was smiling.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
She had buried her husband that afternoon. She had been wrecked with grief. She should not have been smiling.
“Emma, sweetheart.”
Her voice sounded warm. Relieved.
