“Shut it off,” Clay said.

“No,” I said, keeping my hand firmly on the mouse.

“You’re going to watch every last file.”

I double-clicked the recording from October twenty-seventh, three days before I left for Ireland.

That night had been clear and cold enough for frost to settle on the grass.

The patio floodlights threw a hard white glare across the back lawn.

Jaclyn was standing by the metal patio table with a glass of red wine, two women from town laughing next to her.

An ice bucket stood on the glass tabletop beside a portable Bluetooth speaker.