I did not want details.
I wanted exits.
So I called Maya Chen.
Maya and I had been friends since graduate school, though friend never felt like the right word for what she was. We did not talk every week. We did not have matching brunch photos. We were not casual. We were emergency contacts in human form. She had become a family law attorney in Columbus after years of saying she would never “monetize other people’s heartbreak,” and then realizing heartbreak needed competent counsel more than inspirational quotes.
She answered on the second ring.
“Maya Chen.”
Her voice was sharp and awake. That was Maya. She could be asleep in a burning building and answer like a cross-examination had already begun.
“Maya,” I said.
My throat closed.
I heard sheets rustle. “Lena?”
“I just found Caleb asleep on our couch holding Tessa Riley.”
There was a pause, but it was not surprise.
It was recalibration.
“Where are you?”
“In my car. Down the block.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Do they know you saw?”
“No.”
“Do you have proof?”
I closed my eyes. That was why I called Maya. Not Oh my God. Not are you sure? Not maybe there’s an explanation.
Do you have proof?
“Yes,” I said. “Photos and video. Time stamp. TV clock in the shot.”