Her group chat had already done the autopsy. One friend thought his message was too careful. Another zoomed in on the part where he mentioned the song playing during dinner, which felt either observant or dangerously rehearsed.

She read it again after midnight, standing in the kitchen while the dishwasher clicked through its last cycle. The reply was not clever. It was one line about the dessert he had mocked and then finished. That tiny reversal made it feel like her, not a performance designed to keep a man interested.

For years, late-night messages had meant a school emergency, a teenager asking for a ride, somebody needing something. This one could wait ten minutes. It could also wait until tomorrow. She sent it because she wanted to, which was new enough to keep her awake.