“Recordings?”
“One is relevant to the assault.”
My stomach clenched.
He opened a laptop.
Audio began.
Brandon’s voice.
Then Lucas.
The recording quality was surprisingly clear.
They were talking in our kitchen.
The timestamp was from four days before Mom was slapped.
Brandon said, “She won’t leave unless Margaret goes.”
Lucas replied, “Then make Margaret the problem.”
A long pause.
Brandon again.
“If Hannah walks out on her own, it looks better.”
My fingertips went numb.
Lucas said something I couldn’t make out.
Then Brandon laughed.
“She’ll pick her mother. Hannah always has to be the good daughter.”
The recording ended.
Nobody spoke.
Finally I asked, “Why would he record that?”
Ramirez’s expression changed.
“We don’t think Brandon recorded it.”
“Who did?”
He clicked another file.
My father’s voice filled the room.
Weak.
Breathy.
Alive.
“Hannah, if you’re hearing this, I didn’t get the chance to explain.”
I stopped breathing.
Mom had told us Dad had followed Brandon.
She hadn’t known the rest.
Apparently, during one of Dad’s final visits to our apartment, he had hidden a small voice-activated recorder beneath a loose panel in an antique sideboard he had built for me years earlier.
The recorder had remained there unnoticed.
Months of conversations had accumulated.
Most were meaningless.
Television.
Phone calls.
Brandon humming.
But some weren’t.
Brandon speaking to Natalie.
Brandon discussing money with Lucas.
Brandon complaining that my mother’s move had disrupted his timeline.
Then one recording from the morning before my father died.
Dad and Brandon.
My father’s voice was faint but steady.
