My mother had never—not once in five years—called him David to my face. It had always been your husband or that handsome man you married, with that soft teasing affection only mothers manage.
Before Carter could speak, I tested her.
“Mom,” I said, keeping my voice level, “what did we have for breakfast yesterday before the funeral?”
A pause.
Tiny.
But there.
“Of course, honey. Those pancakes you made were delicious.”
My blood went cold.
We had not had breakfast together. Yesterday I had been alone in my house, too sick with grief to eat. Mom had been at her own place with Dad’s sister.
There had been no pancakes.
“Mom,” I said, “what was I wearing?”
Another tiny pause.
“Your black dress, sweetheart. The one with pearl buttons.”
I had worn a navy suit.
No pearls.
Carter’s laptop flashed red.
Text rolled along the side of the screen.
Deepfake detected. Facial mapping anomaly. Voice synthesis high probability. Video not authentic.
I stared at my mother’s face on the screen—her smile, her voice, her mannerisms bent into something almost perfect—and felt reality split open again.
“Emma?”
The fake version of my mother tilted her head.
“Are you there? The connection seems—”
I hung up.
The phone clattered onto the table because my hands were shaking too hard to hold it.
“That wasn’t her,” I whispered.
