the name she had chosen for it with the devastating precision of a child who had learned too early how truth works and how lies work and what it costs to carry the difference between them in secret.
For when I no longer believe you.
She had believed him once. She had believed her father when he told her things about me, believed him when he said the truth needed to come out in court, believed him when he said the judge should know everything. And then she had heard him on the phone, laughing, planning, describing her as a tool and me as a predictable weakness, and the believing had stopped.
Not with drama. Not with confrontation. With a quiet, solitary decision to open a folder on a tablet and press record and wait until the moment came when what she had saved could do what she could not do alone.
