“The side pocket,” I whispered.

My throat burned with every word.

Ethan slid his thumb into the small pocket on the front of the bag.

He pulled out a small charging cable and a piece of paper with a four-digit PIN written on it.

He pressed the power button on the phone.

The screen lit up with a dull blue glow.

“Ethan, we do not have time for her trash,” Eleanor said, stepping forward.

Her high heels clicked sharply on the linoleum floor.

She reached out to grab his arm.

Ethan pulled away from her touch without looking up.

He entered the four-digit PIN.

The phone unlocked, revealing a list of text messages.

There was only one contact saved in the inbox.

It was labeled simply with a single capital letter: R.

Ethan’s thumb hovered over the screen.

He opened the first conversation thread.

The message was dated exactly four years ago, on the twins’ first birthday.

*If you attempt to contact my son today, the custody papers will be filed within the hour,* the message read.

*You will lose the apartment, and you will never see them again.*