I scooped up the tapes and took them to Dad’s room. Last I had seen his recorder, it was on a shelf in his closet. He never used it anymore, but I was pretty sure it would still be there anyway. I was suddenly glad the man was such a hoarder. I flipped on the closet light and stepped inside. It smelled like Dad. Cologne and aftershave and something chemical, like camera oil or lens cleaner or gasoline. And underneath it all, the faint scent of flowers that I associated with my mom. There was nothing left of her in this closet, so there was no way I was actually smelling anything. But the scent was there regardless—always there, always beckoning me, always making me feel hugged from the inside out. If Mom was watching right now, was she sad that I had found out the truth about her, about Peyton? Was she hoping I didn’t bust Dad? Or was she happy that I was finally going to get answers?

Putting the cart a little before the horse there, Nikki. You don’t actually know if he killed anyone, do you? You have to listen to the tapes. Save your judgment.

Yeah, but my judgment was telling me he was definitely lying about something. I’d seen the photos with my own eyes.

I could barely reach the shelf above Dad’s suit jackets—the one where he kept all kinds of odds and ends, along with a box of medicines and bandages and wraps—the things I was constantly needing when I was new to tae kwon do but we hardly ever used anymore. Pushed behind it all was a boxy cassette recorder—the old-fashioned kind that would have had a microphone that you plugged into it. He probably still had the microphone lying around somewhere, too.

I pulled it down, shoved everything back in its place, and brought the recorder to my bedroom. If he came home before I was finished with the recorder, I would just hide it under my bed. He would never know it was missing. He probably hadn’t used it in twenty years.

I crawled onto the middle of my bed and sat cross-legged, staring at the recorder and the cassettes and wondering if I was strong enough to handle whatever I found out. I would have to be.

My phone went off, making me jump. A text from Chris.

Looked up the plate.

And??? I texted.

The name sounds familiar. No record on her, though.

Her?

I waited for him to respond, but he never did. If there was a way to hear frustration in someone’s text voice, I was definitely hearing it in Chris’s. It had to be maddening to remember bits and pieces of things, but have the most random information wiped from your mind. Especially if the random information helped you figure out who was trying to kill you.

Address match? I asked.