My best friend of 37 years suddenly asked me to take one LAST photo together during our beach trip. When I asked why she said “last,” she gave me an unsettling smile and whispered, “Because tomorrow, you’re going to find out who I really am… and you may never want to see me again.”

I remembered Thursdays. Last spring, Russ had started staying late on Thursdays. “Department meetings,” he’d said. I’d never questioned it. Why would I?

Then I found one more message, sent three days before he died.

Russ: Whatever happens, she has to know she wasn’t the one who did anything wrong. Promise me you’ll make her understand that.

Paige: I promise.

I opened his call log. Every Thursday for almost a year, a call to Paige at 4:10 in the afternoon. Never longer than a minute. I’m here. I’m parked out back.

And then I remembered the last morning.

Russ had stood in our kitchen at 7:15 that Tuesday, pouring coffee into his travel mug, and asked me something strange out of nowhere.

“Mer. When’s the last time you and Paige really talked? Like, really talked?”

“We talk every day, weirdo.”

He’d looked at me for a long second with that heavy, sad expression. Then he’d kissed my forehead and said, “Okay. Just… be patient with her, okay? Whatever happens.”