Helena sat in Thomas's car in the driveway because she couldn't listen to it inside the house.

She didn't know why exactly.

She just knew she needed to be somewhere she could leave quickly if she had to.

Thomas had given her a set of earphones and his old laptop.

He hadn't offered to sit with her.

He seemed to understand.

The file was labeled with a date.

Nineteen years ago plus three.

Evelyn had been twenty-six.

Clara had been a newborn.

Helena pressed play.

Three seconds of silence.

Then her father's voice.

She had not heard it in eleven years — he had refused to speak to her after she moved away, and she had not pushed — but she recognized it immediately.

Low.

Measured.

The voice of a man who had never once believed he was wrong about anything.

*"Evelyn."*

A pause.

Then Evelyn's voice, younger, careful: *"How did you get this number?"*

*"That's not important.

I want you to listen to me."*

*"I'm listening."*

*"You've made your point.

You've been gone long enough.

Whatever you think you proved by leaving, you've proved it.

Come home."*

Evelyn's voice was very quiet.

*"There's nothing to come home to."*

*"Your sister is there.

She asks about you."*

A silence.

Longer this time.

*"Don't."* Evelyn's voice changed on that single word.

Hardened.

*"Don't use Helena."*

*"I'm not using anyone.

I'm telling you a fact.

She's twenty-three years old and she lost her mother and her sister in the same year and she doesn't understand why.

You could fix that."*

*"I could fix it by telling her the truth."*

*"There is no truth worth telling that would justify what you've put this family through."*

*"You told me my child would not exist if I stayed."* Evelyn's voice was steady now, very steady, the way a person sounds when they've rehearsed a sentence so many times it no longer has the power to make them cry.

*"Those were your exact words.

Do you remember saying that?"*

Silence.

*"I was trying to protect you from a situation that—"*

*"Do you remember saying it?"*

Another silence.

Longer.

*"I said what I believed was necessary at the time."*

*"She's three months old,"* Evelyn said.

*"Your granddaughter.

She's three months old and she's perfect and you will never meet her because of what you said.

I want you to know that.

I want you to sit with that."*

*"Evelyn—"*

*"Don't call this number again."*

The line went de@d.

Helena sat in the car for a long time after the recording ended.

The street outside was ordinary.

A woman walking a dog.

A delivery van turning the corner.

Clouds moving slowly across a pale afternoon sky.

She took the earphones out.

She sat with her hands in her lap and looked at nothing in particular and let the silence be what it was.

Then she took out her phone and called Ruth Calloway.

It rang twice.

"Helena?" The voice on the other end was careful.

Expecting her.

"Yes," Helena said.

"I listened to the recording."

"Then you know."

"I know enough." Helena looked at the house through the windscreen.

Through the kitchen window she could see Thomas moving around inside, and beyond him, Clara sitting at the table with something spread out in front of her — paper, probably, and those colored pencils she'd had at the park.

"I need to ask you something."

"Ask."

"Are you willing to put what happened to you in writing?

Formally.

Signed."

A pause.

Not a hesitant one.

A considered one.

"I've been willing for four years," Ruth said.

"Evelyn asked me to wait until she had the full picture.

I waited."

"She has it now.

She left it to me."

"I know she did." Ruth's voice was warm, underneath the careful.

"She told me she would.

She said you were the right person.

She said you'd know what to do with it."

Helena looked at the USB drive still sitting on the passenger seat.

"I need to speak to a solicitor," she said.

"Someone who handles this kind of thing.

Do you know anyone?"

"As a matter of fact," Ruth said, "I've already spoken to one.

She's been waiting too."