Aryyah sat on the edge of the hotel bed, her phone in her hand, staring at the screen without really seeing it; Jackson had called seventeen times that day, each call going to voicemail, each message a variation of desperation, anger, or pleading. She had listened to the first few, but then she stopped, unable to bear the weight of his voice, the demands, the accusations, the pain.

The hotel room felt smaller with each passing day, the walls closing in despite the modest space; she had been ...