The elevator doors closed, cutting off the sound of Vance Harrison’s shouting.

I sat in the passenger seat of Daniel’s car, watching the windshield wipers sweep the heavy rain away.

The sky was the color of wet slate.

Daniel kept his eyes on the wet road as we drove back toward Concord.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

My purse sat on my lap.

My phone was inside, heavy and quiet.

We reached my mother’s estate hours later.

The grand stone house looked small against the grey autumn sky.

I went inside alone.

The hallway was silent.

The grandfather clock in the parlor ticked with a slow, heavy rhythm.

I walked up the stairs to my mother’s bedroom.

The furniture was covered in white sheets.

The air smelled of lavender and dust.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my phone from my bag.

The screen illuminated my fingers.

I opened the secure folder.

The video file was there, its timestamp matching the hour she passed.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

I pressed play.