The Last Message on Her Phone

The first thing Marcus Reed saw when he walked into his luxury home was his nineteen-year-old daughter's funeral portrait. The second was his wife standing beneath it, wearing black, with tears running down her face. And the third was the woman beside him, still holding shopping bags from a trip he had promised would only last two days.

The front doors swung open against their brass stoppers.

Marcus entered laughing.

At forty-five, he was the kind of man who took pride in his tailored clothes, polished shoes, and the impression that everything in his life was under control. His beige shirt was neatly pressed. His sunglasses rested on his nose, and his left arm was draped comfortably around Vanessa Cole, a thirty-four-year-old woman in a bright pink dress.

Vanessa carried two designer shopping bags. Marcus pulled a small suitcase behind him while another rolled over the white marble floor.

"Girl, you should've seen the look on that saleswoman's face," Marcus said, laughing.

"She thought you were about to buy the whole store.""

Vanessa giggled.

"You told her to bring me everything in my size.""

"Because you deserve it.""

Then Marcus looked up.

His laughter stopped.

At the center of the enormous living room stood a framed portrait of Aaliyah Reed, his daughter. She wore a white dress in the photograph, her natural curls falling over one shoulder, her smile bright enough to make the whole room feel warmer.

White roses surrounded the portrait. Candles stood in neat rows beneath it. Folded memorial programs rested beside a bowl of white lilies.

The sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated every flower, every photograph, and every tear on Danielle's face.

Marcus's hand slipped from Vanessa's shoulder.

"What happened?"" he asked.

No one answered immediately.

Two relatives sitting near the windows lowered their heads. An older woman pressed a tissue to her mouth. Someone near the dining room began crying again.

Marcus pulled off his sunglasses.

"Danielle?"" he said.

"What's going on?""

Danielle Reed stood beside the memorial table in a simple black funeral dress, a strand of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears.

She walked toward him slowly.

"I called you fifty-one times.""

Marcus glanced at his phone.

"Baby, I can explain. We were traveling, and my phone—"

"Our daughter died while you ignored me.""

The words landed harder than a scream.

Vanessa's shopping bags slipped against her legs.

Marcus stared at his wife.

"What did you just say?""

Danielle stopped three feet away from him.

"Aaliyah is dead.""

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

For a moment, the only noise in the room was the soft hum of the air conditioner and the quiet crackle of a candle wick.

Then Marcus shook his head.

"No. No, that's not possible.""

Danielle pointed toward the portrait.

"Look at her, Marcus.""

He turned.

Aaliyah's smiling face seemed almost painfully alive in the bright daylight. Marcus took one unsteady step toward the photograph, then another.

"When?"" he whispered.

"Yesterday morning.""

"Yesterday?"" He looked back at Danielle.

"Why didn't anybody tell me?""

Danielle let out a broken laugh that contained no amusement whatsoever.

"I did. I called you until I couldn't hold the phone anymore.""

Marcus hurriedly unlocked his screen. His fingers trembled as he opened his recent calls.

The missed calls appeared one beneath another.

Danielle Reed.

Fifty-one attempts.

He swallowed hard.

"I didn't see them.""

"You didn't answer them," Danielle replied.

"There is a difference.""

Vanessa moved away from him.

It was a small movement, barely a step, but Danielle noticed it.

Marcus noticed it too.

He looked at Vanessa, then back at his wife.

"Danielle, I swear to you, I didn't know.""

"She kept asking for you.""

Danielle's voice cracked. She pressed her fingertips against her lips, trying to hold herself together.

"Even when she could barely speak, she kept asking, 'Has Daddy called back? Is Daddy coming home?''"

Marcus's face crumpled.

He reached toward the memorial table, caught the edge of a chair, and gripped it until his knuckles turned white.

"Stop," he whispered.

"Please.""

"No."" Danielle shook her head.

"You don't get to ask me to stop. I sat beside our daughter while she waited for a father who never came.""

"I would have come.""

"Then why weren't you here?""

Marcus had no answer.

He stared at Aaliyah's portrait, his chest rising and falling too quickly.

Vanessa placed one shopping bag on the floor.

"Marcus," she said softly, "maybe we should—"

"Don't," Danielle snapped.

Vanessa recoiled.

Danielle turned toward her, tears still falling.

"You've been standing beside my husband for two days. Did you know my daughter was dying?""

Vanessa's face drained of color.

"I didn't know she was—"

"Did you know he was ignoring my calls?""

"I wasn't checking his phone.""

"That's not what I asked.""

Marcus stepped between them.

"Danielle, leave Vanessa out of this.""

Danielle looked at him as though he had slapped her.

"Leave her out of this?"" she repeated.

"You walked into your daughter's memorial with another woman, carrying shopping bags, and you want me to leave her out of it?""

Several relatives rose from their chairs.

Marcus looked around the room for someone who might defend him.

Nobody moved.

He turned back to the portrait.

"No," he whispered again.

"Not my baby.""

He reached toward the photograph but stopped before touching the glass.

For one brief moment, Danielle saw the father who used to carry Aaliyah on his shoulders through crowded street fairs, the man who had taught her to ride a bicycle and promised to walk her down the aisle someday.

Then she remembered the phone ringing beside her daughter's hospital bed.

And the empty chair.

Danielle wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand.

"There is something else you need to know.""

Marcus turned toward her.

"What?""

Before she could answer, three sharp knocks sounded at the front entrance.

Everyone looked toward the doors.

They opened.

Three Black American police officers entered in uniform, their faces serious and their movements deliberate.

Vanessa covered her mouth.

Marcus straightened, confusion replacing some of the grief on his face.