Jane White had always been the kind of person who ironed her bedsheets. Not out of compulsion, but precision. Every crease in her life had a purpose, every silence a meaning. So when the email arrived—subject line: You know what you did —she didn't flinch. She deleted it. Spam, probably. Or a student with a grudge.

The next morning, she drove to the police station. She asked for Detective Morse, the original investigator. He was retired, but they called him in.

That night, Jane couldn't sleep. She walked through her house, touching the walls like a blind woman learning a room. The porch where Lila had stood. The stairs leading to the basement—a basement Jane had told police was locked that night. But had it been? She distinctly remembered checking the deadbolt. But distinct memories, she knew better than anyone, were often the most fabricated.