I can’t hide the shock on my face. Murdered? “I… I don’t know what to say. I haven’t seen or heard from her in over five years. 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, date of birth, and the mobile number you use in the States?”

I give them, plus my Arizona address. Thea repeats the digits back, adding a small rising tone at the end like a question, and notes them cleanly.

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

I feel my hands want to lace together; I let them. “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 it. 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—it’s hard drudging up the past. I don’t want to relive it.”

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

A breath leaves me like I’ve been holding it since longer than I can remember. “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 recall because the band had a unique design, and the setting was a balance between elegant and gaudy. 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. I’m wondering how it is I never thought that was strange. I never questioned what was meant by not everyone being her friend. Over time, I’d develop my own reasons for not trusting her. Money trouble, money coming in and going out, 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. You know, I never truly understood the reasons at the time. She worked—as a caregiver, most often in homes run by other Filipinos—but jobs came and went. Nothing seemed to stick for very long. If she crossed someone, I wouldn’t know who. It could be anyone.”

“That’s helpful.” She means it. “Besides our messages, did you tell anyone public about this trip? Social posts, open forums, people who might pass it along?”

I hesitate again. “Not really. I was talking to a few people online initially, but ultimately I decided that if I was going to meet someone, it would be the old fashioned way, in-person, after I arrived.”

“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, two close friends. No dates on public posts. And then of course, our conversation on Instagram.”

“Right.” A small, acknowledging shrug. “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 a thing?”

“Okay.”

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.