The familiar scent of his favorite lemonwood polish still clung to the furniture—a ghost of comfort as I braced to face whatever betrayal had been captured.

The first recording began with ambient restaurant noise, then Philip’s unmistakable voice.

“The lawyer says it’s straightforward.

We file for conservatorship, present evidence of her declining mental capacity, and request emergency temporary control of her assets pending the full hearing.”

“And we’ll definitely get it?” Rebecca asked.

My daughter—the child I’d raised alone through the last years of James’s life, after his early Alzheimer’s diagnosis consumed him.