Her sundress.
Her sandals.
Her phone, faceup, glowing with three missed calls from her husband.
Evidence has a sound when you finally understand it.
It clicks.
I did not throw the groceries.
I did not scream.
I did not ask how long, because women only ask that when some part of them still thinks the answer might help.
I placed the bag on the outdoor counter.
One avocado rolled out and tapped against the stainless-steel sink.
Then I walked to the lounge chairs.
Russ’s shirt.
His belt.
His keys.
Brandi’s dress.
Her sandals.
Her phone.
I gathered everything slowly, folding each piece over my arm as if I were closing a drawer.
“Please,” Brandi whispered.
“We can explain.”
I looked at the wet footprints leading from my kitchen door to the pool.
“You already did.”
Russ gripped the edge of the pool.
His wedding ring flashed under the water, bright and meaningless.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
That sentence made something inside me turn colder than anger.
Anger would have thrown his keys at the fence.
Anger would have torn her bikini top in half.
Anger would have made me the woman he was already preparing to describe later.
So I stayed calm.
My fingers tightened around their clothes until the damp fabric pressed cold against my arm.
Then my thumb found the red emergency button on the security panel beside the kitchen entrance.
The same panel I had paid $2,700 to install after Russ laughed and called me paranoid.
The same panel connected to the side gate camera, pool camera, front doorbell, and patrol notification system he had called “too much.”
At 5:42 p.m., “too much” became proof.
His face changed before I even pressed it.
“Colleen.
No.”
I pressed once.
The siren tore through the backyard.
