“That’s impossible.”
“There are reports. Photographs. Dates. Your signature.”
“My signature can be copied.”
“There’s an audio recording.”
“Of what?”
“You speaking to someone about my father.”
I gripped the phone.
“What exactly did I say?”
“I only heard part of it. Dad stopped the recording when I asked questions.”
“Play it again.”
“He locked everything in the study.”
“Then leave.”
“Michael, there’s more.”
A man spoke near her, too muffled to identify. Christine quickly said, “I have to go.”
“No. Stay on the phone.”
“I’m sorry.”
The line went dead.
I called back twice. Both calls failed.
When I returned to Jake’s room, he was awake and watching me.
“Is Mom coming?”
The question held no accusation. That made it worse.
“She’s trying to.”
He considered that answer with the quiet seriousness children sometimes possess when adults have failed to make the world understandable.
