My phone kept lighting up in my hand.
Three missed calls from Vanessa.
Then a text.
“You are making a huge mistake.”
Then another.
“He lies when he is scared.”
Then another.
“Do not let them question him without me.”
I screenshotted every message.
Not because I was calm.
Because my hands needed something useful to do.
At 6:41 p.m., the nurse stepped out with a clipboard held close to her chest.
The social worker followed.
The officer moved closer to the desk.
No one said much.
They did not have to.
Every adult face in that hallway had shifted from concern to recognition.
Then the automatic doors opened.
Vanessa stepped into the ER with perfect lipstick.
She did not look at the nurse first.
She looked at me.
“Michael,” she said, soft enough for strangers to trust, “you need to stop this.”
The officer turned toward her.
The social worker did not move, but her fingers tightened around the clipboard.
