"It is not what you think," he said.
"Men always say that when it is exactly what we think."
"Camille. It is not a woman."
She laughed once, sharp. "So it is a man? A gambling app? A burner for something worse? You have a whole second life in a green jacket pocket and you want credit for the category?"
Julian closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet.
"It is Isaiah."
The name hit the room like a dropped plate that somehow did not shatter. Camille's face emptied.
"Do not," she said softly. "Do not you dare use my dead brother's name to buy yourself three more seconds."
"He is not dead."
"Stop."
"He survived the crash. He has been alive. I have been talking to him for a year. That phone is a second line because he asked me not to let anyone else see the number. Camille — he is outside."
She took a step back and hit the edge of the counter. The stack of white plates clicked softly against itself. The peach silk robe suddenly felt thin as paper.
"You are lying," she said. "You are lying in the worst possible way a person can lie."
Julian shook his head. "Open it. Or don't. But he texted that he is outside and that I should not let you open the phone until morning. Day three hundred sixty-four. He wanted one more sunrise sober before he faced you. He told me not to tell you until he had a full year. Because the last time you saw him he stole from you, and you said you would not survive burying him twice."
Camille's mouth opened. No sound came out at first. Then:
"You let me bury him."
"I didn't know then. None of us knew then. He found me last year. He was sick with fear. He begged me. I chose wrong. I know I chose wrong. But he is outside, Camille, and he is shaking, and if you walk to that door you will see a living man who has already been dead in this house for ten years."