“Phoebe.”
“Where were you?”
“Driving.”
I laughed once.
It sounded bitter.
“You’ve had twenty-two years to think of what to say.”
His shoulders dropped.
“You’re right.”
I held up the tape.
“Who was Joanna?”
Daniel’s face changed.
I expected guilt.
Instead, I saw grief.
Old grief.
The kind that does not disappear just because decades pass.
He sat down.
“She was someone I loved.”
I waited.
His mother began to stand.
Daniel said:
“Mom, go home.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“She stays.”
Daniel nodded.
I sat across from him.
“What happened on June eighteenth, 1994?”
He looked at his hands.
“Joanna didn’t make it to the church.”
My anger faltered.
“What does that mean?”
“She was driving with her sister.”
He swallowed.
“A truck crossed the center line.”
Nobody moved.
“Her sister died at the scene.”
My hand went to my mouth.
“Joanna survived.”
Daniel’s voice became quieter.
