The same woman who had cried beside me at the funeral. Who had brought food, held my hand, whispered, “No mother should ever go through this.”
I had believed her.
My breathing turned shallow. My thoughts scattered, desperate to find an explanation. Maybe it was another Emily. Maybe it was nothing.
But a mother knows.
I unlocked the phone.
My hands trembled as I entered the passcode. Ryan had never changed it. My daughter used to tease him about that.
“If someone steals your phone, they’ll know everything about you,” she’d laugh.
He would just smile and say, “There’s nothing worth stealing.”
The screen opened—and with it, something I could never undo.
Messages filled the screen.
Dozens of them.
Short ones:
“She’s restless today.”
“Give her less this time.”
“Check the locks.”
“Don’t let her near the stairs.”
Longer ones:
“If her mother asks again, tell her nothing’s there.”
“Stop explaining so much. It makes things suspicious.”
My name.
They were talking about me.
My stomach turned. I kept scrolling.
Older messages.
Months.
Years.
Words that made no sense at first—and then too much sense.
“Sedatives.”
“Basement.”
“She remembers.”
“Keep her quiet.”
I covered my mouth, trying to hold in a scream.
Five years.
Five years of mourning.
