Claire pulled her hand back and wiped her face with her sleeve. “Three years ago, on a rainy Thursday night, I was driving home from a double shift at the hospital,” she said. “I was twenty-four, exhausted, and going too fast. A man pushed a woman out of my path. I never even touched the brakes in time.” My mouth went dry. I looked at her hands, the same hands that had sent me photos of burnt cakes. “It was you,” I whispered. Claire nodded, shaking.

“I drove away,” she said. “God forgive me, I drove away.” Behind her, a patrol car rolled slowly to a stop at the curb, and an officer stepped out, holding a notebook. Claire turned and lifted her chin. “I called them an hour ago,” she said. “I wanted you to hear it from me first.”