I hadn't spoken to Elena since Daniel died.
Not because we had fought.
At least, not openly.
Grief had simply pulled us in different directions.
She had moved away from the city six months after the funeral. I heard about it through Daniel's mother.
“She's trying to start over,” she had said.
I understood.
I had tried to start over too.
Three years later, I was still failing.
Elena answered on the third ring.
“Maya?”
Her voice sounded surprised.
“Where are you?”
“That's an unusual way to start a conversation.”
“Please. Where are you?”
There was silence.
Then she sighed.
“Why?”
“I need to see you.”
“Maya—”
“It's about Daniel.”
The line went quiet.
“Don't do this to yourself again,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“You spent two years blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault.”
“I received a message.”
“What?”
“A voice note.”
“Maya…”
“It was Daniel.”
I heard her breathing change.
“That's impossible.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't understand.”
Something in her voice made me sit up.
“What?”
“Elena?”
“Where did the message come from?”
“An unknown number.”
“Delete it.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“Delete the messages.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is playing with you.”
“You haven't even heard it.”
“I don't need to.”
“Yes, you do.”
I played the first recording.
When Daniel's voice filled the silence between us, Elena gasped.
Then she said nothing.
I waited.
“Elena?”
“Delete it.”
“No.”
“Maya, please.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“I am not afraid.”
“You are.”
The words came out harder than I intended.
But three years of unanswered questions had suddenly risen to the surface.
“Did you know something about Daniel's death?”
She hung up.
I stared at my phone.
Ten minutes later, I received a text.
Don't contact me again.
Then another.
And whatever you do, don't listen to the next message.
I felt cold.
The next message?
How did she know there would be another?
At exactly 2:13 the following morning, my phone vibrated.
I didn't touch it.
For nearly an hour, I sat on my bed staring at the notification.
Then I pressed play.
Daniel's voice returned.
“Maya, if Elena tells you I left you…”
The recording crackled.
“Don't believe her.”
My heart stopped.
“I didn't leave you.”
A loud sound interrupted him.
Like a door slamming.
Then Daniel whispered something.
Three words.
“I found it.”
The recording ended.
I listened again.
This time, I noticed a second sound in the background.
Rain.
Heavy rain.
The same rain that had fallen the night Daniel died.
I remembered that night perfectly.
Daniel had left my apartment after we argued.
Our argument had been stupid.
I had accused him of working too much.
He had accused me of not understanding.
Then he kissed my forehead.
“I'll call you tomorrow.”
Those were the last words he ever said to me.
An hour later, the police called.
Daniel's car had gone off the road near the old bridge.
They said the rain had made the road slippery.
They said he died instantly.
But I suddenly remembered something strange.
The police had told me Daniel was driving home.
Except Daniel didn't live anywhere near the old bridge.
The accident happened in the opposite direction.
I opened my laptop.
My fingers moved quickly.
I searched old news reports.
There it was.
LOCAL ARCHITECT DIES IN LATE-NIGHT ACCIDENT.
Daniel Hart.
Thirty-two.
The article mentioned the location.
Riverside Bridge.
I zoomed in on the photograph of the wrecked car.
Then I noticed something.
The passenger door was open.
Not damaged.
Open.
I stared at the image.
Daniel had supposedly been alone.
So why was the passenger door open?
My phone vibrated.
A new message.
Not a voice note this time.
A text.
From an unknown number.
HE WAS NEVER ALONE THAT NIGHT.