Together, we descended the stairs.
Mr. Meyers stood in the office beside Aunt Margaret’s writing desk. The metal case was open on the chair. The video recorder sat on the desk, now connected to a small screen one of his assistants must have brought from the car.
“I reviewed the device only far enough to identify its contents,” he said. “It appears to contain a message from your aunt.”
My heart gave a painful kick.
Aunt Margaret.
The woman who wore red lipstick to breakfast, who sent birthday cards with pressed flowers inside, who once told me that courage was not a roar but a hand reaching for the light switch in a dark room.
I had not heard her voice in two years.
Mr. Meyers pressed play.
The screen flickered.
Then she appeared.
Older. Thinner. Sitting in what looked like an office high above the city. Behind her, Manhattan glittered at night through enormous windows.
