It was past midnight on a Sunday, the kind of night that felt like a held breath after the weekend’s noise. Your phone was face-down on your comforter, the last of the party snapchats having faded to black an hour ago.

A heavy, deliberate knock sounded at your front door.

Not the quick rap of a friend. Not the cheerful rhythm of a delivery person. This was slow. Solid. It echoed through the quiet house.

You were home alone.

Another knock. Harder.

In the silence that followed, you could almost hear the soft click of a phone screen lighting up in a dark room. Your phone. His phone. The evidence, finally connected.