My chest tightened. For a second, I genuinely thought I might be having a heart attack!
She slid it across the surface toward me.
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I looked up at her, trying to laugh it off.
“Emmy, is this some kind of law school exercise? Are you watching too many crime docs?”
She didn’t laugh.
She leaned in and spoke in a low voice — one I hadn’t heard since she was a kid waking me up from a nightmare.
“I remember things,” she said. “Things everyone told me I couldn’t.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out something I hadn’t seen in years — a scratched-up silver flip phone, the kind people stopped using around 2010.
“I remember things.”
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“I found this in the county archive,” she said. “In a sealed box from the courthouse. It wasn’t tagged as evidence. I had to request it by serial number.”
I stared at the phone as if it were radioactive. My mouth went dry. I suddenly felt much older than 70.
“There are voicemails on it,” she continued. “From the night of the crash. And Grandpa… one of them was deleted. Not fully, though.”
My mind raced to make sense of it all.
How could that phone still exist? Why was it hidden? Who even owned it?
“There are voicemails on it.”
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I finally asked the only question that mattered. “What was in the message?”
She swallowed, and her voice dropped even lower.
“They weren’t alone on that road. And someone made sure they didn’t make it home.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. The floor felt as if it were tilting under me.
“Who?” I asked.
