The speakers crackled inside the parking security office, and my father’s recorded voice rolled through the garage.
“Your apartment keys.
Trevor is moving in tonight.”
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Detective Morris stood beside the small office computer with one hand resting on the desk.
The security guard who had pulled Dad away from me stared through the open doorway.
Julia was still near the ambulance, her binder pressed against her ribs as though she had forgotten she was holding it.
My mother had stopped talking.
That alone felt impossible.
On the recording, my voice answered.
“No.”
Then Dad again.
“Andrea.
Don’t embarrass yourself.”
“It’s my home.”
The sound wasn’t perfect.
There was a low electrical hum underneath it and the distant echo of cars moving through the garage.
But every word was recognizable.
My father turned toward the officer holding his arm.
“That’s been edited.”
Detective Morris didn’t look at him.
The recording continued.
“You’re going to do what I say.”
A sharp metallic crash followed.
My keys hitting the concrete.
