Damien It's been a while since I visited Zara. We do keep in touch but not physically. Once I got to her apartment, she offered me water and we went straight into business. The place was small. Quiet. Too organized for someone who had only recently gotten her freedom back. There were books stacked neatly beside the window. Zara sat in the chair across from me, both hands in her lap, and she narrated what happened on the road that night the same way she had probably rehearsed it a thousand times. She sounded like she had promised herself that when this conversation finally came, she was not going to let the emotion of it get in the way of the information. From what she narrated, we were both in the car. Both of us. She was seated in the back seat. We had been coming home from somewhere she no longer remembered clearly, a school event or an errand, something ordinary. She described every detail she remembered. And from there, I knew not to doubt her. No one would come up with som
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