“Your mother lied to protect you.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Theodore dropped the pen. His fingers clawed at the blanket over his knees. His eyes were wild now, desperate.
The nurse tried to calm him, but he shook his head and made a harsh sound in his throat.
Mrs. Vale whispered, “He wants the box.”
Edmund turned sharply. “No.”
Theodore slammed his hand against the armrest.
Once.
Twice.
The frail sound filled the room like a command.
Mrs. Vale moved to a cabinet and removed a small black lacquered box. Edmund stepped toward her, but Theodore struck the armrest again, harder.
Mrs. Vale gave the box to me.
The lid opened with a soft click.
Inside lay a baby bracelet, a bloodstained piece of blue cloth, and an old cassette tape labeled in my mother’s handwriting.
CLAIRE — THE NIGHT OF THE KNIFE
I could not move.
Edmund said quietly, “That tape was never authenticated.”
I looked at him. “Why not?”
“Because Margaret disappeared before—”
“Why not, Edmund?”
His mouth closed.
I took the cassette.
“I want to hear it.”
Theodore closed his eyes.
No one tried to stop me after that.
Mrs. Vale found an old player in a study down the hall. The machine hissed when she pressed play, then clicked, then filled the room with static.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then my mother’s voice emerged.
Younger. Breathless. Terrified.
“If anything happens to me, this is Margaret Ashborne Quillan. My daughter’s name is Claire. She is six months old. Someone entered the nursery tonight. I saw his face.”