I stood in the hallway and stared at the wall. My pulse was somewhere behind my teeth. I opened my phone again, scrolling backward through months of voice memos I had made for myself, grocery lists, reminders, things I wanted to tell my dead husband when I could not sleep.
I found it. Eight months ago. The dinner party where Peter introduced me to Evan.
I had hit record at the table to remember a recipe the hostess promised me, then carried the phone with me when I got up to follow her toward the kitchen for the saffron. I had set it down on the console by the hallway arch while she rummaged in a cupboard. I had forgotten to stop it.
Then Evan’s voice, lower, amused.
I pressed play and lifted the phone to my ear.
Distant cutlery. Laughter from the dining room. My own voice, closer, asking about saffron, then footsteps moving away. Then, clear as if I were standing between them, my brother in the alcove just beyond the console.
“Trust me, she’s ready. Two years of grief. She’ll say yes to anyone who’s nice to Sophie.”
Then Evan’s voice, lower, amused.
“And the kid’s account?”
“Sealed until she’s eighteen. Unless the mother remarries. Then the new husband signs as co-trustee with a family member.”
For a long moment, I didn’t feel anything.
