It was a restricted number. I knew without looking that it was Julian, calling from a payphone or a new burner line as he did once every few weeks when the reality of his new life hit him. He would leave desperate, rambling voicemails begging for a second chance, swearing he had changed, pleading to see the daughter he hadn’t spent ten minutes with since her birth.
I didn’t let the phone ring out. I didn’t feel a surge of anger, nor a flicker of curiosity.
I simply picked up the device, tapped the screen, and deleted the log entirely.
I picked up Cora, holding her close against my heart as we stood by the glass watching the stars come out over the city. The past was a closed door behind us, locked tight, with the key thrown deep into the ocean.
