The second folder held login histories — a record of exactly which devices had reached into my father’s accounts, and when, and from where.

The third folder held something worse.

It held recordings of calls.

My father, once he understood what was happening, had begun quietly keeping records, and among them was a call between Leon and Dahlia in which the two of them talked, lightly, comfortably, about which of our father’s things they would sell first once the funeral was behind them.

They lingered a while on the lake cabin — the one place our father had truly loved, where the photograph beside his coffin had been taken.

They were deciding what to do with it before he was even gone.