“I tried to snatch the thermos off the counter,” she said.

“That’s when Garrett shoved me out into the hallway and took my door keys.”

By half past eight, we had carried the manila folder down the back stairs into the quiet side utility room of the laundromat.

Commercial dryers hummed through the concrete wall, and warm steam rose from the linen folding tables by the back door.

Rebecca reached into the brown folder and took out a cracked black smartphone with a chipped glass corner.

“There’s a second recording saved on the internal memory chip,” she said.