Rachel backed against the wall, shaking so violently she could barely stand.

My mother clung to her, sobbing.

The flashlight clicked on, casting a harsh white beam across the entryway.

My father looked twenty years older in that light.

“He found us,” Rachel whispered.

“No,” Noah said.

His voice sounded strange—thin, stunned, but certain.

“That’s not him.”

We all turned to him.

Noah swallowed and stepped out from behind me before I could stop him.

“I know that voice because I heard it on Mom’s old cassette tapes.”

My heart stopped.

There were three tapes in a locked box in my closet.

I had made them the year I was thrown out—recordings of every call, every threat, every lie.

I had never told Noah about them.

I had never played them for anyone.

He looked at me, hurt in his eyes.

“I found them last month. I didn’t understand everything. But I know that voice.”

The knocking came at the door now, once, twice—measured, almost polite.

My father closed his eyes.

Noah pointed the way a witness points in court.

“It’s Grandpa.”