The image loaded slowly. A hotel bathroom.
Brooke in the mirror, one hip cocked, lips parted in that practiced half-smile she used at every birthday photo. She was wearing Daniel’s old gray college sweatshirt. The one he told me he had lost on a work trip last fall.
I opened the message.
Under the photo, four words: « Can’t wait for Friday. »
The seconds stretched until the message simply blinked out of existence.
Then another text arrived: « Sorry, wrong chat. »
I read it twice. Three times.
Daniel breathed slowly and evenly beside me.
« Wrong chat, » I whispered to the ceiling.
Then I reached for the old iPad on my nightstand and photographed the screen of my phone before the timer could erase the image from memory too.
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