The line went dead with a sharp click.

Leo slowly lowered the phone back to the table.

He looked at me, his face set in a grim line.

“She’s going to run,” I said.

“She can’t,” Leo said. “The police are already on their way to the house.”

Just then, the phone in the bag lit up again.

This time, it wasn’t a call.

It was an alert from our home security system, synced to my account.

A motion sensor had been triggered at our old apartment.

The screen showed a live video feed of our front door.

The lock was turning.

On the small screen, the heavy oak door of our old apartment swung open.

A woman stepped into the narrow hallway.

It was Josephine.

She wore her beige trench coat, the collar turned up against the cold Des Moines drizzle.

She held a brass key in her gloved hand.

“She kept a spare,” Leo whispered, his thumb pressing hard against the edge of the phone.

On the screen, Josephine walked straight toward the small writing desk in the corner of our living room.