The nurse who’d asked me that second question, a steady, sharp-eyed woman named Renata Kim, closed the exam room door behind Grady and Pauline before I’d even fully processed what had just happened.
“You’re safe in here,” she said, crouching slightly to meet my eyes. “Whatever you tell me stays between us and the medical team unless you decide otherwise. Can you tell me what actually happened this morning?”
I looked down at the phone still clutched in my hand, thirty-one dated audio files sitting in its memory, months of proof I’d been too afraid to imagine actually using until that exact moment.
“I need to show you something first,” I said. “Before I say anything else.”
Renata listened to the first recording—a morning from six weeks earlier, Grady’s voice unmistakable, Pauline’s voice giving instructions from the porch—her expression shifting from professional composure to something considerably more focused and alarmed.
