That afternoon, Daniel went to the storage unit alone.
When he returned, he carried one small cassette recorder.
He set it on the table.
“Rebecca used to record messages during treatment.”
I looked at him.
“There’s one with your name on it.”
My pulse quickened.
“You listened to it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because for the first time in my life, I realized that finding something doesn’t automatically give me the right to open it.”
I stared at the recorder.
A tiny strip of masking tape was attached to the cassette.
In faded handwriting were four words.
FOR EMILY — AFTER DANIEL.
After Daniel what?
I reached toward the machine.
Then stopped.
Because suddenly I understood something else.
Rebecca had known her brother better than either of us realized.
And somehow, eighteen years earlier, she had expected there might come a day when I would need to hear whatever was on that tape.
