I’d lingered as long as I could, spoken to the other woman, who said she had called 9-1-1, and when we were alone, I’d spotted your cell phone lying on the floor. The calls and texts I’d made to you were on its memory card. I’d been careful to use a prepaid phone, but cops had a way of tracing the point of sale and, if motivated, digging through endless hours of video footage. I’d have been fucked if they found me on one of those recordings. So I’d reached in the car and grabbed your phone, tucking it in my pocket.

Now, as I poured a stiff drink, I fished your phone out of a drawer. I’d seen you type in the passcode once: 2009. The year your sister had died. Not genius, but personal and memorable for both of us, just like the print you’d made that reminded me of you both.

I scrolled through the last week before your accident to the night of your show. You’d taken several selfies, with friends and fans, I suppose. I recognized a few of the faces, including Brit, who was sexy in a buttoned-up kind of way. Your sister’s smile was brighter, but given the subject of your photography, I could understand the darkness in you. Death had left a deeper mark on you and me.

A few pictures of you at the opening looked posed. You were standing in front of your collection, smiling, but it was not joyous. It was sheepish, as if you’d felt like an impostor and didn’t belong there at all.

In all the photos, you were standing in front of the picture that I’d bought. As I scrolled back further, I searched for hints of any man in your life. Thankfully, I didn’t see anyone who gave off a romantic vibe. The men you were pictured with at various weddings were totally into you. How could they not have been? But you stared at the camera, clearly not noticing them like a lover would. That was good. I liked the idea that we had something special.

As I scrolled back in time, I could see your health decline. You got thinner. Your eyes grew hollower. Your skin got pastier with each new year. It was a descent into drug and alcohol addiction. It was not a pretty journey, and I was happy to return to your present healthy, whole self.

I gulped down the whiskey, closed the phone, removed the battery, and tucked it in my dresser drawer. The last thing I needed was for someone to trace the phone and find me. That would have required some explaining.

Restless and unsettled, I couldn’t relax. I’d killed you once and had nearly done it a second time. Christ. How could I have hurt someone I loved so much? Someone I’d do anything to protect.