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8:43.

8:41.

Then back to 8:42.

My stomach tightens.

"Have you dropped it?"

"No."

"Water damage?"

"No."

"Broken screen?"

"Before this."

I don't like the answer. Because I don't have one.

"What happened when you contacted the police?"

His expression changes.

"They couldn't find my messages."

"What?"

"I showed them."

He scrolls.

"I posted online too."

"About your parents?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"It disappeared."

"Deleted?"

"I don't know."

He looks frustrated.

"I posted it three times. Different sites. Different accounts. It vanished every time."

"That doesn't happen."

"I know."

The answer is quiet. Not argumentative. Just exhausted. I stand.

"I need to check something."