The Silence Is Making a List

I have started ranking silences, and the district voicemail is winning. Not because I am afraid of what it says, though I am, but because leaving it unplayed lets me imagine the version that is useful to me. That is cowardice wearing strategy like a good coat.

Keisha not answering bothers me more than the investigator calling openly. Open hostility means someone wants me frightened. Silence means they may be tidying the edges. I wanted to drive back to Mount Vernon and check the burner phone myself. Instead I made a clean folder and copied Patricia’s old custody filing into it, as if neat paper could keep five years from moving under my feet.

The worst part is that I am already calculating how to use Destiny. Not harm her—God, I hope not that—but make her existence force Claire to be precise. I keep asking what I can offer without offering her up as evidence. The answer is probably nothing. The truth is that I want my name attached to this in a way that proves I am more than the pretty face who walked into danger and waited for the competent woman to fix it. I want them to see the case was mine before anyone thought to call the reporter.

That vanity made me ashamed for a minute, but only a minute. Fear has a worse smell. I am afraid that if I open the voicemail, this stops being a problem I can solve and becomes proof that people were erased while I was busy building a career from fixing other people’s messes.

I washed my hair, checked the regular phone, and did not play it. Some evidence is easier to oppose before you hear its voice.