“I downloaded an audio recording application last week for my lecture notes,” she said, placing the phone on the desk between us. “The microphone is highly sensitive. It can pick up a whisper from ten feet away.”

I looked at the small black screen, then at my granddaughter.

At sixteen, she possessed a quiet resolve that often intimidated the people in our small town.

“You want to record him,” I said.

“I want his own voice on record, explaining his terms,” she said. “If he admits to wanting control of the trust, or if he makes promises he cannot keep, we will have it.”

“Virginia is a one-party consent state for recording,” I murmured, recalling the legal advice my late husband had once received.

“Exactly,” Caroline said. “Only one person in the conversation needs to know it is being recorded. And that person will be me.”

I looked at the legal documents spread across the desk, then at the letter from Rebecca.

The rain was heavier now, a steady, drumming sound that filled the quiet spaces of the old house.