By midnight, we had three physical copies of the binder and a backup drive containing the audio files.

I locked the master binder in the small fireproof safe in my bedroom closet.

The house was completely quiet now, the wind whistling through the old window frames of our Fredericksburg home.

I lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, watching the headlights of passing cars paint pale lines across the plaster.

My mind kept playing the sound of Thomas’s voice on the speaker.

*Parental alienation.*

The phrase sounded dirty, like a weapon designed to twist a mother’s love into a crime.

I had never spoken ill of Thomas to Caroline when she was small.

I had simply told her that her father was away, working, and that he loved her from a distance.

As she grew older and began asking more analytical questions, I told her the truth—that he chose not to be involved.

That wasn’t alienation; it was reality.

The next morning was Saturday, cold and overcast with a threat of sleet.

I walked down Caroline Street to Arthur Pendelton’s house, the sidewalk slick with damp leaves.