There was no fear in it.

There was only management.

Across the room, Roland backed into the wall.

And beside me, Nora, who I had thought was still unconscious, opened her eyes and whispered something to the detective that made her immediately call for a forensic team.

“The audio isn’t the worst part,” my sister said.

“Phoebe found the papers.

The ones about our eighteenth birthday.” Detective Cruz signaled an officer to remove my mother from the room.

As she was led past my stretcher, my mother reached out to touch my arm, and I pulled away — not out of cruelty, but because her own recorded voice had just ended, permanently, the years I had spent making excuses for her.