"Walk me through it."
So I did. I told her about the delivery and the video and the gas and dragging Everett, and the call, and the moment the phone left my knee. I told her what Glynis had said about the internet and about being right. I told her about watching her thumb go down on the delete button. Officer Valdivia wrote all of it down, and when I was done she tapped her pen against the notebook and said, "Did she hurt you when she took it?"
"No."
"Push you? Threaten you?"
"No. She just grabbed it."
"Did you tell her to give it back?"
"Twice."
She nodded. "And she deleted a video that you'd told the dispatcher, in her hearing, was going to be given to the fire department."
"Yes."
"Okay." She looked at the phone in my hand. "Here's what I'd like to do, if you're willing. I'd like you to open your photos with my camera recording, and show me where your deleted files go, and we'll see what's there. I'm not going to take your phone tonight unless you want me to. But I'm going to ask you to let a detective do a full download of it tomorrow, with your consent, so there's no question about what was on it and when. Is that all right?"
It was all right. I opened Photos. I scrolled down to the bottom, to the little folder that says Recently Deleted, the one that holds everything you throw away for thirty days in case you change your mind, and I unlocked it with my face, and there it was. The first thumbnail. A white truck, a tan wall, a blur of blue jugs. 4:09.