Mia POV
Fifteen seconds.
I pull the phone across the table with two fingers slowly, no scraping sound, and angle the screen toward me without picking it up. If I pick it up, the camera angle might catch the motion. If I leave it flat and lean forward, it looks like I am looking at the table.
I open messages.
Rosa's number is not in here, of course, it is not in here, why would it be? So? I go to a new message, and I type the number from memory. Ten digits I have known since I was sixteen years old, burned into me the way only the numbers that matter ever get burned in. Rosa's number. My father's old office line. The combination to the lockbox under his desk, where he kept our passports.
Some numbers you just keep.
The keyboard makes no sound. I checked the sound settings in the half second before I started, volume icon, muted, good, and I type fast because fast is all I have right now.
Six words.
