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His hands on the wheel, his face turned sideways, caught mid-shout.
And in the corner of the frame, barely visible — Chloe’s hand reaching toward him.
“Chloe took it,” Ava said.
“Right before it happened.
Her phone was thrown from the car.
I found it in the grass two days later when I went back.
I printed the photo and hid it in the jacket lining because I didn’t know what else to do with it.”
I picked up the photograph.
Anatomy
Daniel’s face.
My husband’s face.
Screaming at our daughter in the last seconds before the crash.
“Ava,” I said slowly.
“Does anyone else know about this?”
She shook her head.
“Then we need to be very careful,” I said.
“Because if he came back for his phone and saw your face — he already suspects something.”
Ava’s eyes went to the window.
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