“Look, Megan, let’s take the box downstairs and have some tea.”

“Did you know about this woman eleven years ago?

Did Paul tell you?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

She tapped her phone against her palm, staring at the chimney brick.

I took my phone out of the pocket of Paul’s faded blue shirt, smoothed the tax form flat on my knee, and punched the seven digits into the keypad.

The line clicked once, and a distant mechanical ring started in my ear.

It rang twice before a woman picked up.