I can’t hide the shock on my face. Murdered? “I… I don’t know what to say. What happened?”

“I understand, sir David,” she replies, not taking the bait of the question. She settles, pen poised but not tapping. “Before we continue: you’re here as a witness. You can stop anytime. If something feels off, tell me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Salamat.” She clicks the pen once. “Can you confirm your full name, address, date of birth, and the mobile number you use in the States?”

I give the details and watch her write, still catching up to what she said: my sister.

Thea repeats the details back, precise and unhurried, and notes them cleanly.

“I’ll also need a copy of your passport.”

I look up. “Your sister?”

She holds my gaze.

“I didn’t know Jaclyn had a sister,” I say. “She never mentioned you. No wonder I recognized something in your face.”

“Mr. Gailey, sir,” she says, using my last name. “Your passport, please?”

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the printout of my passport. “This is all I have on me right now. My passport is back at the hotel.”

She nods, sliding the paper into her folder.

“Moving on,” she says. “How did you know Jaclyn Alvarez, and when was your last contact? Any kind of contact—text, call, social.”

Without thinking, my hands lace together. “We were in a relationship. Years ago. It ended badly. Last real contact was over five years ago. I blocked her after. No calls, no texts since. If there were any, I didn’t answer.”

“Understood.” Thea’s face doesn’t move much, but the pen slows for a beat, as if giving the past a little space on the page. “Did Ms. Alvarez ever mention anyone who might want to harm her? Debts, disputes, anyone she was afraid of?”

I sift. “It’s been so long… I really wouldn’t know.” I hear my own pause and so does she.

She sets the pen down. “Take your time. Say it how you remember. Even the smallest detail might be important. Let me decide what’s useful.”

“It’s just so long ago,” I say. “But more than that… this was a significant relationship for me. When it ended—why it ended—I don’t want to relive it.”

“Many relationships end badly,” she says, still even. “But we’re talking about someone who’s been murdered. Maybe start with where things went wrong.”

A breath leaves me that I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Jaclyn had a double life, one that she kept hidden from me. It’s why we’re not together.”

“A ‘double life’? Can you say a bit more?”

I go numb. How many times had I already tried to explain it? It never went well. People have a hard time understanding what they’ve never experienced themselves. I settle for a simpler explanation.

“Early on she’d bring me to community gatherings—friends of friends. Once she pulled me aside and said not everyone there was actually a friend. If things went sideways, I was to make an excuse and we’d leave. Her signal was her ring: she wore a thin band on her right hand, and if she flipped it to the left, that meant go. ‘Wrong hand, wrong company,’ she joked. I remember it because the band had a unique design, and she never took it off. I tried asking her once where she’d gotten it. She played it off that she’d bought it for herself, but I knew better.”

For a moment, I lose myself in thought. How did I never think that was strange? I never questioned what was meant by not everyone being her friend. Over time, I’d developed my own reasons for not trusting her. Money that came and went, people I never met. Jobs that never lasted. Favors that came with strings. Not to mention everything else that came to light.

“Sir David? You were saying? Did things go smoothly? Did she switch the ring from one hand to the other?”

“Not that night.”

“How about other nights?”

I keep my eyes on the table and shake my head. “I didn’t understand the reasons then. She worked as a caregiver, mostly in homes run by other Filipinos, but jobs came and went. Nothing stuck for long. If she crossed someone, I wouldn’t know who. It could be anyone.”

Thea’s pen stills for a beat, then moves again. “That’s helpful. Besides our messages, did you tell anyone publicly about this trip? Social posts, open forums, people who might pass it along?”

I hesitate again. “Not publicly,” I say. “No open posts, no forums.” I start to add something, then let it go. “No.”

“I see,” Thea says. Heat rises in my face and the room seems smaller by a breath. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, sir David. Plenty of people come for romance.”

“Not embarrassed. Private.” I try for a smile and don’t find one. “A few people knew I was coming—my two teenage daughters and two close friends. I didn’t post my travel dates publicly.”

“Right.” A small, acknowledging shrug. “And then our conversation on Instagram.”

I nod once. “Yes.”

“Thank you for not throwing your phone at me for that.” She turns a page. “Last one for now: on the night my sister died—two months ago, May 17, late evening Manila time—where were you? Even approximate is fine.”

I search the calendar in my head and find the shape of that week. “Late evening on the 17th here would be the morning of the 17th for me. I was home in Arizona. Working. Taking care of my daughters. A typical work/school day. Not exciting.”

“Boring is underrated, wouldn’t you say?” Thea says without a smile, which somehow reads as humor anyway. “Can I show you something?”

Do I have a choice? “Okay.”

Sweat beads along the side of my face. I don’t wipe it away.

She slides a plastic sleeve across the table. Inside: a printout—columns of numbers, gridlines like faint rain. One line is highlighted.

“Manila time 21:17 on the 17th,” she says. “That’s 06:17 in Arizona the same day. An outgoing call from my sister’s phone to this U.S. number.” Her pen taps the last four digits. They’re mine. “It rang for nineteen seconds. No answer.”

The room seems to narrow by an inch. I check my own call history out of reflex, knowing it won’t reach that far back. “I don’t remember a call that early,” I say. “If I did get a number I didn’t recognize, I wouldn’t have answered. I let unknowns go to voicemail. If there’s no message, I don’t respond.”

“That makes sense.” Thea’s voice stays even as she rests the pen. “What was that morning like for you? Can you walk me through everything in detail?”

The black dome in the corner hums softly, or maybe that’s just the air. I try to lay out the morning in a straight line, but there are too many gaps for me to fill in.