“Play it again.”
He swallowed before touching the keyboard.
The recording restarted.
Isabella appeared.
Alive.
Her dark hair was shorter than I remembered. She wore no jewelry. No makeup. Faint shadows rested beneath her eyes, and every few seconds she glanced nervously toward something beyond the camera.
But she was alive.
My wife.
The woman whose side of our bed I had refused to let anyone touch for nearly a year.
The woman whose final voicemail remained preserved on three separate encrypted servers because I feared that one day I might forget the precise sound of her voice.
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