Back home, I dug through closets until I found an old combination radio and tape player.
The machine groaned when I inserted the cassette.
Stephen sat beside me.
I pressed Play.
Static.
Then my father’s voice.
Younger.
Clearer.
“Claire, it’s Dad.”
My breath stopped.
The recording was apparently a copy of a voicemail.
“I got your message. I understand why you’re angry.”
More static.
“I’m not going to ask you to forgive me. But please listen to this one thing.”
A long pause.
“What happened at Harlow wasn’t what you thought.”
Stephen’s eyes met mine.
My father’s voice continued.
“Daniel knows more than he’s told you.”
My blood went cold.
Stephen leaned toward the machine.
Daniel.
My ex-husband.
Lily’s father.
On the tape, my father continued.
“If anything happens, don’t call me at home. Don’t call Anna. And whatever you do, don’t trust—”
The recording dissolved into static.
“No,” I whispered.
