“We’re not finished,” Harrison said, and the room went still again.

He reached into his briefcase and drew out a small object wrapped in a handkerchief. He unfolded it to reveal a little carved wooden music box, its lid worn smooth with handling.

Mark’s breath hitched. “That’s… she used to play that for me. When I was a baby. To get me to sleep.”

“She kept it on her nightstand every day of the last year,” I said quietly. The memory of her hand resting on it in the dark tightened my chest.

Harrison lifted the lid. No lullaby came. Nestled where the mechanism should have chimed was a tiny black micro-recorder. He pressed play.

Static hissed, then Mark’s voice — six months ago, the week he bought the insurance policy — roared into the silent room.