Then my father’s voice filled the study.
Low.
Tired.
Alive.
“Julian, sit down.”
A younger Julian answered, agitated. “This is ridiculous.”
“You forged her signature.”
“I borrowed money.”
“You forged your mother’s signature.”
A sharp sound. A chair, maybe.
Then Julian: “You always choose Elena.”
Dad’s voice hardened. “This has nothing to do with your sister.”
“It has everything to do with her.”
The tape crackled.
Then another voice appeared.
Mom.
Soft, frightened.
“Julian, please. Your father is trying to help.”
Julian laughed, but it was not the laugh I knew. It was raw, wounded, dangerous.
“Help? He’s cutting me out.”
Dad said, “I’m changing the trust tomorrow.”
Silence.
Then Julian said, very quietly, “No, you’re not.”
The tape clicked, muffled, as if the recorder had been moved or covered.
I leaned closer.
There was a thud.
Mom cried out.
Dad gasped.
Then chaos—scraping, shouting, something heavy hitting the floor.
Mom screamed my father’s name.
The recording dissolved into static.
I could not breathe.
My hand flew to my mouth.
Behind me, the study door creaked.
I turned so quickly the chair struck the desk.
Mom stood in the doorway, pale as bone.
Her eyes were fixed on the recorder.
“I didn’t know he kept it,” she whispered.
I rose slowly.
