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Her robe had twisted under her.
One slipper lay near the step.
The other was gone.
“Evan,” she cried again.
He stood there for half a second.
That half second would matter later.
It would matter when the footage slowed enough to show his face.
It would matter when he looked toward his mother before he looked toward his wife.
It would matter when the police asked why he left.
Then Patricia said something Mia could not hear.
Evan moved.
Not toward Mia.
Toward the driver’s door.
The truck door slammed.
That sound became the cleanest memory of the whole morning.
Not the fall.
Not the ice.
Not the cold soaking through her robe.
The door.
The choice.
The pickup backed out.
Patricia sat in the passenger seat with the blanket folded on her lap.
The crib panels rattled once as the truck turned.
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